


Different: Role Reversal AU

by abutterflyobsession



Category: Strange Magic (2015), Strange Magic - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Potionless - Freeform, Role Reversal AU, Strange Magic, butterfly bog, strange magic 2015, strange magic role reversal au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abutterflyobsession/pseuds/abutterflyobsession
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange Magic: Role Reversal AU, the story of Prince Kenneth Boggart of the Light Fields and The Brier Queen.</p><p>To start, however, border conflicts, teenage Bog and baby Dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Family

_Prologue_

_Twenty years ago_

It had been a harsh winter and the goblins had struggled to make it through to Spring. As the primroses bloomed on the border the goblins had no time to spare on admiring the lovely sight of the blossoms fluttering among the dark thorns and briers, occupied with replenishing stores depleted in the cold months, and they ventured further and further across the border in search of food. The fairies, newly returned from migration, having lived in warmth and comfort while the inhabitants of the Dark Forest fought to merely survive, were displeased by these incursions into their kingdom.

Skirmishes broke out on the border as the fairies sought to keep back the hungry, thieving goblins. But their options were to starve or fight, so the goblins fought and continued their trips across the border, raiding at night when they had the advantage over the fairies, who were far more dependent on light than the goblins were. The goblins, weak from the rigors of the harsh winter, began to lose ground and the fairies slowly gained the advantage, pushing the goblins back into the forest, until finally the king sent a force to invade the forest and put an end to the fighting for once and for all.

Weakened by hunger and the unending fighting the goblins were subdued, the remnants of their forces fleeing into the deepest parts of the forests, too dark and tangled for fairies to dare follow. The Light Fields were victorious, but their victory was not complete. In the final days of fighting, when the king of the Dark Forest knew they would lose, he led a small force once more into enemy territory to capture a prize that might one day give them the opportunity for revenge. With their stolen treasure they vanished into the depths of the forest beyond the reach of their enemy. The castle of the Dark Forest stood empty and when the fairy army reached it they found no trace of the goblin king or his people.

“They have gone too far.”

The words echoed in the damp hollow of the cave, over the goblins huddled together in makeshift beds of moss and leaves, the ground too damp to allow the lighting of a fire to chase away the chill of early spring.

The king of the goblins, The Brier King, laid a bundle down on the floor beneath the glow of a blue light. His massive hands handled the bundle with tenderness as he drew back the layers of leaf wrappings to reveal the tiny, scaly body of a goblin child, no more than a handful of years old. A red wound marked its tiny chest, empty eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. A claw brushed across the tiny face, drawing down the eyelids so that the tiny creature looked at peace.

“They killed her.” He fought to keep his voice steady, but anger made him growl the words, “My daughter. My heir.”

“I can’t bring back the dead.” The blue light came from a sphere of cobwebs suspended in the crook of a broken branch. Within the cobwebs flitted a tiny shape, very much like a fairy but not quite one. Her voice was regretful, for she could clearly see the pain in the goblin’s eyes.

“No,” The king growled, snatching a second bundle from the hands of another goblin. He tossed it down beside the body of his daughter and the second bundle emitted a frightened wail at this rough handling. “But you can help me fashion a reasonable substitute.”

“I … I don’t understand.”

“The fairies hunted us while we were starving, slaughtered children. I want revenge, I want to destroy them as we have been destroyed and I want the weapon that undoes them to be fashioned of their own blood. Here are the materials.” He nudged forward the wailing form with his foot, then leaned down to touch the body of his daughter, the gesture gentle. He straightened, a towering shadow, “Now make me something I can use.”

* * *

_Seventeen years ago_

Thirteen year old Kenneth Boggart, prince of the Light Fields, slipped away after the funeral service. He went to a balcony that looked out onto the fields, seeking solace in the sight of the vibrant green of his realm, dotted with the bright color of flowers. What he sought was not to be found, for the air was still hazy with gray smoke, the remains of villages still smoldering under the overcast sky.

The plague had devastated the kingdom and the dead were burned in their homes, whole villages put to the torch to contain the spread of disease. The quarantine on the castle had only just been lifted, the stone chambers have been scorched and scoured to eradicate every last trace of the deadly plague that had taken the lives of nearly the entire royal line. Now funerals were being held without caskets, the monarchs and their family reduced to ashes in a pyre, piled in with all the other recently dead. Rank had no bearing, no ceremony was given to any of them at the time, king and pauper all equal in this tragedy.

“Are you alright, Kenneth?” A hand was laid on the prince’s shoulder and he flinched at the unexpected touch, wings flickering in and out. After being in quarantine for the past month, one of the few well enough to get about and look after the sick, he was not used to the presence of other people. He turned and found it was Dagda, now regent of the Light Fields until the prince came of age.

“Bog.” The prince corrected. His father had been Kenneth so the prince had been called Bog by his family. In the dizzying period after the lifting of the quarantine the castle had been filled with strangers who called him “Kenneth” and “Ken”, and he had began to feel unreal. As if he had died with his parents, after all, and was a ghost that still lingered to haunt the empty castle. Now that the world was coming a bit more back into focus he began to insist on what he considered to be his proper name. “Call me Bog.” After a pause he added, because Dagda had been kind enough and he had not been brought up to be rude, “Please.”

“Very well. Bog.” Dagda nodded. He was a round, heavy fairy, his black beard already shot through with gray though he was not yet old. Six months ago Dagda had been an unimportant official, shooting up through the ranks by the virtues of being an efficient organizer in a chaotic time, and because his superiors were either dead, sick, or bereaved by the loss of friend and family. The remnants of the council had been unanimous in the decision to appoint him regent, even though he was no relation to the royal family, nor even of their clan.

Bog’s wings twitched at the thought. He felt even more of a ghost when he was surrounded by the fairies of other clans. He was now the last of a unique bloodline, his wings wings numbering a distinct four in number and of a clear, iridescent membrane instead of the billowing colored canvases that unfurled from the backs of other fairies. There had been few of his clan left even before the plague, and even fewer who had the distinctive dragonfly wings. Now, as far as he was aware, he was the only one. The crowds that surrounded him were a constant reminder that he looked different, sounded different with his faint but distinct accent, and that all others who were like him were no more.

“The council and I have come to a decision about the matter of succession.” Dagda said. The prince shrugged. That was one of those things adults always talked about but Bog could never see how it applied to himself. Dagda carefully explained that there were factions that objected to the regent being an outsider and in order to appease them some political maneuvering had to be done. And that was why Prince Kenneth Boggart was to be engaged to Dagda’s daughter, Dawn.

“She’s a  _baby_!” Bog’s tender thirteen-year-old sensibilities were wounded by this idea. Being attached to a baby, of all things, was just too much.

“That won’t be true forever,” Dagda tried not to laugh at the flash of indignation in the boy’s blue eyes. It was the first time since he had met the prince that the boy had displayed anything more than a sort of weary numbness. As far as Dagda knew the prince had not even cried. “And it’s a temporary measure. For the moment it assures the dissenters that you will eventually inherit the throne and the line of succession not be broken, despite an outsider regent. In a few years, well, things will change and in more stable times … Things change.” He patted Bog’s shoulder. “In the meantime I want you to consider Dawn and myself as your family.”

“Family?” There was a terrible note of raw pain in that word and the boy’s shoulders hunched up, his skinny arms wrapping around himself as he shut out the world. Dagda said more, but Bog did not hear any of it. The hand patted his shoulder again and then Dagda finally left him alone.

Dawn and her nursemaid came by, the little girl only just looking toward her second year of life, toddling along with cheerful determination. She had lost her mother to the plague, but she was young and already the memory of what she had lost was fading. Tiny feet in little white slippers padded to and fro, and a head of yellow-gold curls bobbed along. Bog was sitting on the ground, his back to the ravaged fields he couldn’t bear to look at. His long, narrow wings were spread out on either side of him, brushing over the cold stone tiles of the floor.

“Hi!” Dawn trotted up, chubby fingers playing in front of her face as she looked the prince over, her face lit but a huge smile as she declared, “I Dawn!” She looked at him expectantly.

“I’m Bog.” The prince said, realizing the little girl wasn’t going to leave him alone unless he answered.

“Boggy!” Dawn exclaimed, hopping up and down.

“Bog.” He insisted.

Dawn just giggled and hugged Bog’s arm. He had to twitched his wings aside or she would have trampled all over them. He put one hand on her round little shoulder and pushed her back, carefully, as if she might bite if startled. “Go away. I don’t like you.”

“Like you!” Dawn hugged tighter. “Like your nose!” She made a grab for it but Bog managed to move his head in time. She giggled, delighted with this game, and made another grab. He picked her up, holding her tiny form up off the floor. “Stop it!” He snapped. But she was thrilled to be picked up, kicking her feet and crowing happily at this turn of events.

“You’ve got her charmed.” The nursemaid said, glad of a break from her energetic little charge. She obviously had no intention of retrieving Dawn right away and Bog’s arms were getting tired so he dropped his betrothed onto his lap and endured her curious exploration of his face. Ears, it seemed, were fun to pull on, and Bog’s nose just as good. Biting back impatience he endured it and listened to her prattling and responding as necessary. He was actually well-versed in the dialect of small children, having had several small cousins living in the castle before … before they died.

Gray apathy had formed a shell over Bog, muffling voices and dulling colors, keeping the pain at bay. But the little princess tugging on his ears was so very alive and so very much like the little cousins he had chased through the halls, the little things shrieking with laughter when their big cousin caught them and lifted them high into the air. 

And all of them were dead, never to laugh or smile again. And the shell cracked, pain rushing in and washing over him in an overwhelming wave and he hugged Dawn tight, as if to keep her from escaping.

“Oh. Oh!” Dawn patted a little hand on Bog’s face, smacking at the tears that poured down his face. She gave his cheek a clumsy kiss. “Make it better.” She pulled her head back to examine the results of her work. Boggy was still crying, which would not do at all, so she wrapped her arms around his neck and patted vaguely at his shoulder blades like she had seen a lot of people do lately. “There, there.” She said solemnly, “There, there.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Prince Kenneth.”

Bog was slouched comfortably over the table, one hand holding open the book propped up on the tea pot, his other twirling a spoon in a flickering blur of silver. He flicked the spoon to a halt between his fingers and reached around the book to snag a sugar cube from the bowl. He popped the cube into his mouth and picked up his cup by the rim to take a sip of tea, angling his hand so the spoon did not poke his face.

“Prince _Kenneth_.”

The cup of hot tea was set down in its saucer without Bog ever lifting his eyes from the pages of his book. The spoon began spinning in his fingers again.

“ _Boggy_!”

The spoon flew out of his fingers when a stuffed toy hit him in the face. Disoriented, he put his elbow right onto the edge of the saucer, sending the cup flying and tea spilling over the tablecloth and the front of his white waistcoat.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Bog slapped at the front of his waistcoat, trying to disperse the hot liquid before it seeped through and burned his skin and at the same time holding his book of poetry up and away from the liquid.

“Boggy!” This time his name was spoken with dismay instead of indignation, a tiny pink face frowning at him from beneath a frame of golden hair.

“Dawn!” He sputtered at the four-year-old princess, “Why--?!”

“It is rude to read at the table!” The tiny princess lisped.

“It kind of is,” Piped up the only other guest at the tea party. Or, at least, the only other actually living member of the party. Surrounded by an assortment of stuffed animals propped up on chairs, a small elf boy named Sunny, six years of age, sat on a chair too big for him, his short legs sticking straight out in front of him. He wore a pair of well-worn overalls and a slightly nervous expression that deepened when the prince leveled a glare at him. Sunny slumped in his seat until his face was only visible from the freckled nose up. The moment Bog turned away, however, Sunny risked reaching back up to the table and taking a cookie which he industriously munched while Dawn launched into a lecture about table manners.

“You are behaving _disgracefully_ ,” Dawn said, infusing her words with all the dignity and rebuke that her tiny frame and lack of two front teeth could muster.

“And throwing things at your guests is good manners?” Bog gave his waistcoat one last futile dab with a napkin and gave up, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the seat that rightfully belonged to a stuffed bumblebee named Duke Marigold Farthing the Third. Bog wiggled a bit so the base of his wings weren't digging into the back of the chair and grabbed another cube of sugar. He tossed it in his mouth and crunched it between his teeth.

“Sit up straight.” Dawn ordered. She was kneeling on her chair in order to address Bog from a better vantage. Her own spoon was used to point severely at her wayward betrothed, “And gen'lmen do _not_ eat the sugar cubes.”

“I'm not a gentleman, I'm a prince. And I'm eating sugar cubes.” In demonstration Bog crunched another one, looking smugly at Dawn as he did so.

Sunny watched this scene, eyes flicking back and forth between the two combatants while he made significant headway on the plate of cookies. He was scared of the prince, who was so much older and bigger and said such rude things, but he was not abandoning a tea party hosted by his best friend, Princess Dawn. Neither would he willingly abandon a selection of five different kinds of cookies and three kinds of cake.

“Boggy!”

Bog held a sugar cube between his front teeth and smiled.

“What will our guests think?” Dawn swept a pink little hand at Sunny and the stuffed animals. Sunny, who had been reaching to take the cake off of Countess Geranium Bumble Freesia's plate, immediately sat ramrod straight in his seat and tried to look like a gentleman.

“They're probably scared,” Bog took his feet off the chair and picked up a doll made of pink rose petals, turning its head to look at Dawn.

“Scared?” Dawn asked.

“Yes,” He made the doll nod in unison with him, “Scared of _you_.”

“Of _me_?” Dawn's voice rose to high-pitched disbelief on the last word, “ _Why_?”

“Scared you'll throw more of them at my head!”

The doll was thrust across the table and Dawn shrieked and threw up her arms to shield herself. But Bog stopped short and simply waggled it in front of her. Realizing she was safe Dawn took the doll and cuddled it protectively. “You messed up her hair,” She scolded, patting at the smaller petals that stuck out from the doll's head.

Bog ate another sugar cube.

Dawn hopped off her chair and stormed over to Bog. He flew out of his chair and hovered out of reach, tucking his knobbly-kneed legs safely away from Dawn's grabbing hands.

“Get down, get down, Boggy!”

“Why? What are you going to do?” He flew around behind her and tweaked her ear.

“Come down here!” Dawn hopped up and down, “Come down here and I will _kiss_ you.”

“Oh, no!” Bog dodged Baronet Sweetpea the stuffed caterpillar, clasping his hands to the front of his tea-stained waistcoat, “You _wouldn't_.”

“I'm gonna kiss you!” Dawn repeated, feeling she had struck a chord of terror.

“Anything but that!”

“I'm gonna kiss you, I'm gonna kiss you!” Dawn chased him around the tea table, “Sunny, help me to catch him!”

Sunny hopped off his chair and followed Dawn around the table, but was able to contribute little the pursuit aside from enthusiasm and a willingness to do whatever Dawn asked of him.

On one circuit of the table Bog stole yet another sugar cube and Dawn shrieked protest. He slowed and dipped down low enough that his pursuers could finally snag his shoes. Dawn wrapped herself around Bog's right foot, giggling in victory, and pulled hard. Sunny caught the left and immediately had his own feet leave the ground as Bog buzzed up a couple feet higher. For a few seconds Dawn and Sunny screamed and kicked their feet uselessly in the air, but Bog didn't keep them hanging long. He kicked them gently onto the ground and let himself dropto the ground and flop onto his back, wings splayed out on either side.

“I am defeated!”

Dawn hopped onto his chest and smacked a huge kiss on his cheek. “I got you!”

“Oh, no!”

“I did, I got you, me and Sunny got you and now you have to marry me, Boggy and behave at all my tea parties and not throw the guests.” She waved her hands to emphasize her words, bouncing up and down and making Bog wheeze.

“Got you.” Sunny said, sitting on Bog's ankle.

A screech of dismay interrupted Dawn's celebrations, “What's all this? I leave you alone for five minutes and you're rolling in the dirt!”

A wide-faced elf with short frizzy hair escaping from underneath a nurse's cap came marching over to inspect her charges. “Prince Kenneth!” She seized him by the pointed ear and hauled him to his feet, Dawn rolling off his chest and hastily standing upright herself. He was almost twice her height and had to bend double to ease the pressure on his ear, his wings twitching out behind him.

“Ow! Griselda!” He complained.

“Look at this mess! Dirt and grass and tea!”

“Sorry, Griselda.”

“Sorry, Griselda.” Dawn and Sunny chorused.

“I don't blame the little ones, but you, Prince Kenneth, ought to know better!”

“I do know better. I just chose to misbehave.”

In hindsight, Bog ought to have thought twice about mouthing off while Griselda still had his ear in an iron grip. When she finally released him he was almost positive his ear was now bent at an odd angle.

He stood up to his full height, rolling his shoulders and pulling his waistcoat back into place. He was always uncomfortable in what was deemed to be proper attire for a prince. It made it so hard to slouch comfortably over a book. But he didn't complain about the restricting clothing, hoping that if he looked the part he might feel more like he fitted in it.

The feeling of being a ghost walking among the living had never entirely left him, even four years since the end of the devastating plague. The castle was once more filled with people, but they were all strangers with different clothing and customs. Their presence squeezed out the remnants of his family's, the laughter of strangers overpowering the fading echoes of the merriment of the previous inhabitants.

Bog was the only thing left, a stranger in his own home.

He didn't miss the sideways glances and the way people whispered when he passed. Those that supported keeping his family's line unbroken were disappointed in the quiet, unsociable prince with his gangling limbs and lack of grace. The factions that thought it was time for a new power on the throne regarded Bog with disdain, calling his wings freakish and goblin-like. They revived old stories about how Prince Kenneth's people used to live on the border of the forest and intermarried with goblins.

“Just stories,” Bog's mother had told him when he was small, “Just silly stories to tell around the fire at night and make your skin crawl. Goblins are goblins, fairies are fairies, there's no mixing the two. We're just a tougher type of fairy. Just because those soft butterflies couldn't survive on the border they make up stories to make themselves feel better.”

“Honestly,” Griselda shook her head over Bog's stained clothing as she shooed him and Dawn inside, sending Sunny to fetch someone to clear away the tea, “You're not that far off eighteen, now, Kenneth. When are you going to grow up?”

Eighteen years old.

That was an important age in his clan. Reaching your eighteenth birthday meant you were an adult and capable of bearing all the responsibilities of one. Bog would have painted his eyes with Kohl and dressed in red, the signs of a warrior. The dark Kohl served to shield his clan's eyes from the glare of the sun, but over the years it had taken on further layers of ritual and decoration. Different patterns denoted ranks and achievements of those that wore them. Red, deep red, was the color of warriors, the color of the tunics worn beneath armor.

Changing into fresh clothing, Bog looked in the mirror, trying to imagine black patterns drawn around his eyes. He didn't even know what patterns would be his to use, his memory of their shapes and meanings faded from disuse. Not that he could have worn his marks before the court. The custom was specific to Bog's extinct clan and thought primitive by the standards of all the others.

Not that Bog felt he was much of a prince or a warrior, he doubted he had earned any significant honors. He was trained in the use of weapons, but discouraged from finding any situations to make use of his skills. Weapons were not carried except for ceremonial occasions. For such occasions Bog had once wanted to carry his father's scepter, a tall, elegant weapon of tarnished silver, topped with an amethyst gem, recognized as a gem of royalty by all the clans. But the denizens of the current court had no room in their etiquette for such a dull, unwieldy weapon, which Bog refused to even let them shine.

“It's not supposed to shine!” He had said at the age of fourteen during an argument with Dagda, “Shiny things attract birds! Weapons and armor should not shine!”

“Yes, well,” Dagda had said in and effort of placate his ward, “This is only a ceremonial affair. If you want to carry the scepter it needs to be polished.”

Bog had refused to commit such sacrilege and carried a sword. Since then the scepter remained untouched and Bog carried a sword, as everyone else did.

It was exhausting, sometimes, being like everyone else.

* * *

 

The little goblin limbed into the castle dungeon, sliding down into the pit where the Sugar Plum fairy floated in her cage of blue cobwebs.

“Hello, little one!” Sugar Plum greeted the drab intruder.

The little goblin stepped into the light, her dull armor brightened in the blue light, her pale face glowing. Ragged leaves grew on her head and fell over her sharp little face, and wings, just as dull and ragged, dragged behind her, the edges catching on the rough floor. With a wordless grunt she flopped down under the cobweb cage, curling up into a ball beneath the blanket of her wings.

“Dear, dear,” Sugar Plum shook her head over the battered little creature. There were claw marks scored across the ridges of her arms, and a several chips in the layered leaves of her shoulders, “What happened this time?”

“They called me fairy-face,” she mumbled, clawed hands tucked under her chin, “So I bit a piece off the biggest one's nose.”

“Then the rest ganged up on you? What did your father have to say about this?”

It wasn't the first time the girl had taken offense over the mockery of her sharp little face. Compared to the other inhabitants of the forest her face was small and nondescript, her fangs too small, her nose insignificant. Her eyes were large in her thin, underfed face, bright and golden and unnatural to the goblins. Those eyes were mocked, too, but the bullies were slowly learning to fear the fire that kindled in those large eyes when the little goblin was enraged.

“Told me not to waste my energy on idiots. But he said I had the right idea, going for the leader's throat.”

“Or nose,” Sugar Plum sighed, tiara twinkling as she shook her head again, “Oh, little thorn.”

“I have to make them respect me,” the goblin girl said, obviously reciting something that had been told to her many times, “I can't rule if they don't respect me. I can't rally them to get revenge on the fairies if they won't follow me.”

“Again with the revenge thing?” Sugar Plum threw up her hands, “The king's energy would be better spent rebuilding his kingdom instead of preparing it for war! And wasn't the plague enough? Why can't he be satisfying with wiping out half the fairy kingdom with the pestilence he set on it?”

“They need to be taught their lesson,” the little goblin insisted, rolling over to look up at the caged fairy, “They think they're better than us and we've got to show them they're not.”

“And goblins are better, then?”

“Of course!”

“Then you're just as bad as fairies, thinking you're better than everyone else.”

“But we _are_ better! We're stronger, tougher, smarter!”

“Then how did they beat the goblins?”

“Because they _cheated_! They're cowards and they attacked us when we were weak!”

“What do you call sending a plague, if not cheating, little thorn?”

The goblin grumbled and rolled over on her side again, “Well, they cheated _first_. They _started_ it.”

“Yes,” Sugar Plum agreed, “But who's going to end it?”

“I will. That's what I'm for, to beat the fairies. When I grow up, big and strong, I'll lead an army and rip all their silly, pretty wings off for trophies.”

“Ugh,” Sugar Plum shuddered delicately, “Not what I meant. But we'll shelve that for the moment."

Countless variations of the discussion had taken place between Sugar Plum and the girl over the years. The girl recited her father's words, speaking them louder and louder to drown out what sense she might hear in Sugar Plum's arguments. For the girl was in awe of her father and was convinced he knew everything and that all differing points of view were wrong. Sugar Plum strove to keep the girl open-minded, and she thought she might have had some small success there, even if the girl reverted to spouting her father's opinions when she was in danger of losing an argument.

"Give me your hands, little thorn, and let me see what I can do about your bumps.”

“Father says I shouldn't let you baby me,” she said, remaining where she was, “He says it's your fault I've stayed so small.”

“Yes, because undernourishment and brutal physical exertion have _nothing_ to do with stunting the growth of a child. You could use a lot more babying, if you ask me.”

“You always use such strange words. I wish I had time to learn more of them,” the little goblin yawned, stretching her legs and wiggling her toes before curling up again, “But it's more important that I get strong. Father says tricky words won't help us win. Those are fairy ways.”

“Maybe they are, but that doesn't mean you can't use them. Why can't you steal fairy tactics along with the supplies you rob from the border villages? Fair spoils of war.”

“Huh,” the goblin considered this, her eyes already half-closed in sleep, “Hadn't thought about it like that. Father wouldn't like it, but . . . I kind of do. I saw a raven today. They're very, very . . .”

She fumbled for the word and Sugar Plum offered, “Frightening? Monstrous? Deadly?”

“No,” she shook her head, rustling the leaves on her head, “No, they're . . . _wonderful_. So scary and strong. And big.”

The note of wistfulness made Sugar Plum smile. Of all the little princess's worries, not being big enough was the worst. The king towered, tall and wide, while this little slip of a princess was so small she looked to be more of ten years old than thirteen. Despite her lack of size, she was as fierce as the king, and tougher than an armored beetle.

“You'll get bigger, little one. Are you sleeping here?”

“Mmhm,” she snuggled into the dust, then popped her head up, tilting her head to listen. The silence seemed to be acceptable and she settled back down, murmuring, “No one's around, Plum, would you call me by my secret name? I know father wouldn't like it, but I like to hear someone say it, now and again.”

“Of course, dear,” Plum floated as close to the side of her cage as she could, pressing her hands to the cobwebs and looking down at the sleepy little face of the princess of the Dark Forest with an expression of fondness. The girl had no mother and somehow Sugar Plum had ended up serving in the place of one. She had never intended to grow fond of the king's little revenge plan, but this girl was more than the weapon of her father. She had a keen mind and a good heart. Sugar Plum hardly thought herself as one to be a guiding force in anyone's life, but there was no one else. Only the half-cracked Sugar Plum fairy to help this little girl, starved of food and affection, see that the world was not so narrow as the king would have her believe.

“Sleep well," Plum said softly, "Sleep well, Marianne."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops it's a chapter scribbled off in a couple of hours without the aid of a beta reader
> 
> so, garbage, but enjoy


	3. Chapter 3

When the Brier King was was in a generous mood, helped along by partaking of equally generous amounts of drink, he would tell the princess the story of how she was born.

“You were not born like other children, my little thorn, you were forged. You were born once, your life brief, cut short by the hands of fairies. But you were forged in the fires of red-agony, made whole and new and your heat quenched with the blood of fairy children. A weapon crafted to aim at the hearts of the fairies and fly true when the time is right.”

The princess listened to this story, entranced by the telling of it as completely as the first time it had been narrated to her. Each time she would nod a quick little nod at the mention of her destiny to destroy the fairies, making sure her father knew she understood how important it was.

“That's why you look different from other goblins,” Her father went on, “You were forged with armor instead of skin, a carapace shaped to mock the fairies and their gaudy metal shells they so easily don and discard. You, my thorn, will always be dressed for battle.”

This part of the story always made the princess sit a little straighter, the words instilling a temporary pride in her odd appearance. It soon faded once the story was told and the evening fire was banked down to glowing embers, but she enjoyed the few moments reprieve from shame.

“From the backs of a half a dozen fairies we tore their flimsy, flower petal wings, and we took the strength and shape from all of them to weave with dried leaves from the forest floor to make you new wings. Wings as tough as tree bark, wings that will carry you far and never give you away by the flashing of bright colors.”

The princess twitched her shoulders, rustling her wings of mottled green and gray, the membrane veined with brown. No other goblin had wings. Many insects and sprites had their own wings to carry them across the forest, but goblins stayed near the ground where shelter was always close at hand.

“When they see you,” the king said, no longer seeing the princess himself, his eyes fixed on something unseen, “When they see you they will see a nightmare. Their own faces looking back at them from the shadows of the forest . . . and it will destroy them.”

The king smiled and the princess did her best to imitate the vicious grin.

She never spoke while her father told the story. In the past she had tried to ask questions and found that this always brought the story to an abrupt end and usually earned her a knock to the side of the head, either from her father's hand or from the tankard he held.

She learned to be silent and still on the outside, while inside her thoughts clamored for details. There was so much she did not know about her own story: what had she been like before she died? How had she looked before they wrapped her in armor and sewed wings to her back? These were questions she could never ask her father and no one else seemed to know the story. At least, they did not want to speak of it. Even Sugar Plum was reticent on the subject. It was obvious to the princess that Plum knew a great deal about it—how else would she knew the princess's first name? The secret name that must never be spoken in her father's hearing?

It was easier to plead with Plum for answers. The fairy creature did not get mad like the king did, and even if she was roused to anger the worst she did was shout a little. But when the princess pressed Plum for answers the fairy slipped into one of her strange, manic moods. Something behind Plum's eyes dimmed, even as the sparkle of her form grew dazzling, and she would speak nonsense, darting madly around her prison.

It frightened the princess to see her friend proving the whispers true: that the Sugar Plum fairy was mad, her mind cracked by grief over her capture and imprisonment.

So the princess did not ask questions. She kept her mouth tightly closed and her ears wide open to catch any new scraps of information that might float by, and said nothing.

* * *

 

“What do you mean you don't have them?”

Bog's voice rose roughly and several other visitors to the castle library turned sharply in their seats to shoot stern looks at him. Heat built up under Bog's collar and he knew that a red flush of embarrassment was creeping up his neck, but his indignation was still too strong for him to back down. He modulated his voice to softer tones and resumed questioning the librarian.

“What do you mean you don't have these books?” Bog stabbed at the piece of paper with the list of book titles he had presented to the librarian, “I know for a fact that you have these books. If you don't know where they are stop wasting my time and find someone who does.”

A prince should not lose his temper. A prince should be firm, but polite and understanding. He should not take offense at the mean-spirited whispers that floated in his wake. He should not be angry at this librarian because he had caught her gossiping about the awkward Prince Kenneth.

He couldn't help being mad, though, catching the tail end of a recounting of his clumsiness during last evening's official dinner where he had knocked dishes off the table with his elbow on two separate occasions and gotten the visiting duke's name wrong when giving a toast. The ordeal had left Bog's nerves raw and stinging and he had thought to come to the library and immerse himself in rereading the few books about his clans traditions. Books he had not looked at since before the loss of his family, but now longed to read again, and find some comfortable piece of the past still living in them.

“As I said, your highness,” the librarian's haughty dignity was only marred by a touch of nervousness. She kept her slim form straight and relaxed, her hands folded neatly at her waist, her short gray hair smooth and neat, not even a twitch of her wings betraying ill-ease, “We no longer have those volumes in our collection. Two years ago we cataloged the contents of the library and discarded damaged or unnecessary books. There is only so much space and we cannot wast time and effort caring for books that have become obsolete.”

“Obsolete?” The word was like a kick in the gut, “My clan's—my _family's_ history is _obsolete_?”

“Your highness, I'm sorry if--”

“Just—just forget it!”

The burst of temper was washed away by the realization that no matter how much he might shout at the librarians they could not produce the books.That his family's history, their traditions, were considered nothing more than outdated information. And he hated himself for not checking on the books sooner, for not thinking to make sure they were preserved.

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the library, slamming the door behind him to relieve his feelings. He kept walking, though he had no destination in mind, except possibly the nearest pond where he could drown himself and his red hot face.

“Your highness!”

A woman was calling out to him and Bog quickened his pace, thinking it was the librarian.

Yellow and black striped wings fluttered in front of Bog, his pursuer taking flight to dart ahead and cut him off, “Your highness, wait!”

Bog pulled up short, his wings spreading out to keep him balanced. He looked down at the woman—girl—who was not the librarian. She was about his age with dark hair grown out unusually long and braided into a plait that had been wound around her head like a crown but had come unpinned and was hanging down over one ear.

“You walk so fast!” She said breathlessly, hand pressed to her heart.

“Yes?” Bog said shortly, not sure if he was responding to her comment or prompting her to state her business. He wasn't sure how to react to her casual attitude or dishevelment, especially after dealing with the prim and proper head librarian.

The girl seemed to take it as a cue and said, “Oh, I'm Ellie—Elinor! Oh, I'm sorry, I'm not doing this right,” She pushed her drooping braid back and dropped a quick but graceful curtsy, “Forgive the interruption, your highness, I'm Elinor, a library page. I couldn't help but overhear you couldn't find the books you were looking for--”

The redness of Bog's face had deepened at the curtsy. The reference to his behavior in the library nearly set his skin on fire.

“--and I think I might be able to help.”

“Help?” Bog asked, blankly, trying to find an excuse to cut the interview short so he could writhe in embarrassment in the privacy of his room. Possibly smack his head on the wall a few times. Try to drive out the memory of how he had not only lost his temper in the hallowed halls of silence and learning, but had also done it in front of a very pretty girl.

“Yes,” Ellie or Elinor nodded, her enthusiasm dying as she sensed Bog's impatience, “You see, all the discarded books that were still in readable condition were sold off. There's a list of who purchased what, and perhaps the books you're looking for can be traced . . .”

“Really?”

“If they weren't too damaged--”

“The last time I saw them they were all perfectly sound. That—this is—thank you. I-I appreciate you telling me this after--” Bog rubbed his hand over the back of his burning neck, “--after everything.”

To avoid meeting Elinor's very lovely eyes which were so dark brown as to look black, Bog glanced at the way back to the library. If he wanted a list of the sold books he would have to go back there and ask. Yes, he could send someone else, but the thought of the significant looks the librarian's would give at the presence of a proxy, of how they would nod to themselves that the prince was sulking . . . somehow that seemed worse. And he had never asked anyone to go to the library for him before, it would look odd.

“Is this your list?” Elinor held up a piece of paper, “You left it on the desk. Would you like me to look the information up for you?”

“I—I wouldn't want to put you to the trouble--”

“No trouble at all! I mean—it would be my honor, your highness.”

“It's . . . just Bog--”

“Boggy!”

The young Princess Dawn barreled into Bog's legs, making his wings flicker as he struggled to keep from tipping over. In the distance Griselda and another elf nursemaid were in pursuit of their charge.

“Dawn! What are you doing here?” Bog asked, becoming even more flustered by her abrupt arrival. He shot a glance at Elinor and saw that she was trying not to laugh at his predicament.

“Looking for you!" Dawn answered, "Let's play, let's play!”

She grabbed the edge of his waistcoat and tugged him toward a window and away from the approaching nursemaids. Dawn had no wings of her own yet, but she had been quick to realize that Bog made a suitable substitute and often used him to escape things she found unpleasant, such as naps, baths, and lessons.

“Imp!” Bog snatched her off the ground and set her on his shoulder.

“Fly! Fly!” Dawn wrapped her arms around Bog's head, her desperation growing as the nursemaids closed in.

“How can I fly if I can't see?” Bog asked, blinded by Dawn's arms.

“Boggy!” Dawn wailed. She glanced around for a more willing accomplice to her escape and her eyes fell on Elinor, “Fly?” She asked.

“Is that a royal order?” Elinor asked, appropriately solemn.

“Yes?” Dawn replied, uncertain, then nodded, “Yes! I'm a princess and you have to do what I say!”

“But I outrank you,” Bog said, pulling Dawn's arms away from his face, “And I say no flying. Don't bother El—um—Miss Elinor. You'll just have to—what are you running from this time?”

“ _Math_ ,” Dawn pouted.

“There you are!” Griselda puffed, finally reaching them, “Thank you, Kenneth, dear, for catching her.”

“Boggy! You have _betrayed_ me!”

“That's one of your vocabulary words, darling,” Griselda said cheerily, still catching her breath, “Good work. Now—oh! Kenneth, who is this young lady?”

Bog wondered if it wasn't too late to help Dawn escape.

Dawn was pried loose and dragged away to her fate. Griselda gave Bog an encouraging grin that made him want to fall through the floor and disappear.

“So that was your betrothed?” Elinor asked, waving to Dawn.

“She's not! I mean—she is, but, you see—”

Elinor giggled, “I know, I know. Politics. She's sweet.”

“She's a bossy wee thing,” Bog sighed. He realized too late he had let his accent slip and he coughed, mentally smacking his forehead.

Elinor just laughed, “I can check the records for you, your highness. I'll do it after we close up, with the formidable madam Tiffany isn't there to raise an eyebrow over this list.”

“Thank you,” Bog laced his fingers together and unlaced them, watching as Elinor tucked the list in her pocket and quickly pinned her braid back in place, “You can--”

“I have to get back! I'll send you whatever I find. Excuse me, your highness!”

She dropped another quick curtsy and zipped into the air and back toward the library.

“You can just call me Bog,” the prince sighed as her wings disappeared through the doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brier King dad might not be an entirely accurate source of information. Just saying.


	4. Chapter 4

“You know I'm supportive of your dreams,” the Sugar Plum fairy swam a circle in her cage, her fingertips massaging her temples, “That I encourage your independent thinking, but I draw the line at suicidal risks!”

The princess patted at the mound of dust she had heaped up around and over her new treasure, humming to herself, at peace with life even though every inch of her was aching and her armor was full of moss and rotten wood. If her father found out about her recent adventure the punishment he would undoubtedly mete out would make her current bruises pale in comparison. But she didn't plan to let him find out and her conspirators would probably keep their mouths shut.

“You went all alone,” Plum tore at the wavy blue flames of her hair, “To where ravens are nesting!”

“I wasn't alone,” the princess objected.

Though she had intended to go alone she ended up with uninvited and unwilling companions.

* * *

“I can't believe you talked me into this.”

“I didn't talk you into this,” the princess slipped through a net of briers while her unwilling companion trampled his way through, “You _followed_ me.”

The princess had a small entourage of tutors, trainers, and bodyguards that should have been keeping an eye on her and stop her from doing anything dangerous. Like, for instance, deliberately climbing a tree where ravens were nesting. However the princess's keepers could not exclusively devote their time to minding her, their skills being in demand elsewhere. It was a straightforward matter for the princess to convince all of them that someone else was watching her and then go merrily on her way to whatever mischief she had in mind.

Unfortunately the princess had not managed to escape notice when she left the fortress, and found herself followed by a goblin of her own age. With a wide body and flat head he was appropriately called Stump. He also possessed a nose of significant size, significant even with a large chunk missing from it.

“You're up to something,” Stump grumbled the accusation, ripping at a stubborn branch with his teeth.

“And now you're an accessory before the fact,” the princess paused to scan the area for cover, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. The bag was just a leaf she had folded and attached a blade of grass to as a handle. The leaf bulged with supplies and Stump eyed it with suspicion and frowned over her statement.

“What?”

“It means you'll get in trouble too, so you can't tell on me.”

“Why did you bring _her_?” Stump jerked his head to indicate the nervous little fly trailing behind them.

“People like to follow me,” the princess growled through her sharp teeth, “I'm a natural leader.”

The fly buzzed apologetically. She was an under-grown thing, half the size she should be, her wings so small that they looked ridiculous, shimmering a tiny iridescent blur over her back. She ought to have been plump and round, but she was shriveled, not unlike the outside of a walnut shell. Her four legs, skinny as pins, barely cleared the ground as she bumbled along after Stump and the princess.

“Twig,” the princess said to the fly, “You should go back.”

“But I want to go on an adventure,” Twig buzzed in the musical dialect of the Dark Forest sprites, “No one ever lets me come.”

“I didn't let you come either!”

“You didn't say no.”

“I told you get get lost, that should have been enough.”

“What are you doing? Can I help?”

“No, this is a one goblin mission and you two are only going to get in my way.”

She dug her toes into the mossy side of the tree and tested her foothold. Earlier excursions to the area had revealed that some of the trees were rotten and spongy, dangerous for climbing. This particular tree had been selected after careful inspection, but it was always best to double-check. She didn't want to spend another week picking bits of rotten wood out of her armor.

Stump watched her begin the climb. Every since she had bitten his nose he hadn't dared to openly bully her, but he would gladly witness her misdeeds and relate them to the proper authorities. He was content to sit down on a tree stump and watch events unfold.

Twig tried to fly alongside the princess, but her wings faltered and she began to dip back down to the ground.

“Look after her!” The princess called down to Stump.

“You can't order me around! And why don't you just fly?”

“The ravens might see me!”

“Why are you climbing a tree with ravens in it?”

“For fun!”

Stump rolled his eyes and picked Twig up from where she had dropped into the moss and brought her to a more sheltered spot. The two of them settled back to watch the show.

* * *

“Stump,” Plum said flatly, “Stump was with you. And am I supposed to find comfort in the fact that that little _worm_ tagged along on this insane jaunt? The boy that's been your arch-nemesis for the past three years and given you almost as many scars as your father has!”

“He was helpful. Eventually. A bit. He carried Twig, anyway.”

* * *

 

“An egg?” Stump had hissed, “We're going to die because you wanted a snack?”

“It's not for eating!” the princess panted, holding the egg awkwardly. The speckled, oblong thing was more than half as tall as she was and difficult to carry. Especially when the egg's mother was stabbing around in the moss for the tasty bug it had seen fluttering around.

While the princess cradled the egg, Stump held the trembling Twig, the little fly too tired to get herself airborne. All three of them held their breath and listened to the raven hopping and pecking nearby, feeling the forest floor trembling as it came closer to their nook in a tangle of roots.

The princess bared her teeth in a silent snarl. It had been going so well. She got the egg rigged up in a harness of spider-silk rope and was lowering it to the next branch down. She had picked the tree for the convenient spacing of the branches so she could make the trip down in stages, lowering the egg from one safe nook to the next.

It had worked beautifully, too, until a wayward shaft of sunlight managed to penetrate the forest's thick cover, making the silk shine and the egg glow against the dark tree. Then, just for spite, as far as the princess was concerned, the wind picked up and the egg began to swing back and forth, beckoning any ravens that might be casting an eye over the scene.

At the first rustle of feathers the princess tied off the end of the rope and dropped down to the egg, hugged it to herself, and bit the rope to free it. Her descent was not so much flying as a controlled fall, but both she and the egg survived.

For the moment.

Lured by the fluttering of insect wings and the princess's muffled cries as she struggled to keep the egg intact during her fall and through their landing, the ravens dove down to snap up a tasty morsel of goblin.

Now the princess and her companions were huddled together in a makeshift shelter that would not stand up to a single jab of the raven's massive beak. Peering through a hole in the roots the princess studied the beak and estimated that she could easily fit inside it along with a friend or two.

Or, lacking friends, a nemesis and a tag-along.

Unless she did something. Probably something stupid that was just as likely to kill her as save her. Especially since it would require her going out into the open, if only for a second or two. Terrifying thought. But she couldn't let herself dwell on the thought, because Stump was watching and she'd let herself get eaten before she let him think she was afraid.

Digging a quick hole in the soft earth, the princess set the egg in it and gave it a little downward push to make sure it wasn't going to roll. Satisfied, she brushed off her hands and clawed through the contents of her bag. Without the rope taking up space it took just a moment to lay hands on the item she wanted.

“Stump?”

“I'm going to kill you, fairy-face," Stump rumbled, "You're as cracked as that witch you love so much--"

“Watch your mouth,” the princess hissed and grabbed his wide throat, her claws finding the soft creases where his neck met his shoulders, squeezing until she felt blood on her fingertips, “Or I'll use you as bird-bait! You call can call me princess, you can call me Thorn, but you will _not_ call me fairy-face again! _Understood_?”

Stump's beady eyes had gone wide, a rim of white showing.

Twig buzzed in his arms and asked if she could help.

“Keep an eye on him,” the princess released Stump and scratched at the roots to get rid of the blood.

Stump just stared.

“Now, watch closely,” the princess smiled, a wicked, vicious smile that she had often practiced in the reflection of the still waters of the bog, “I'm going to do something absolutely amazing and when I do— _run_.”

* * *

 

“Do I even want to know?”

Sugar Plum drooped, her hair disarrayed and her tiara slipping over her eyes.

“Flairs,” the princess said smugly, “Like I'd be stupid enough to go into bird territory without flairs. Flash! Bang! Birds take off, we take off.”

“That explains the scorching,” Plum pushed up her tiara and motioned at her own hairline.

The princess tugged on the singed ends of the leaves that usually hung over her face, scowling. They had been burnt back to a noticeable degree, no longer allowing her to hide her eyes behind their uneven fringe.

“It's not that bad,” She mumbled, scratching around her egg.

Her egg. Her very own raven egg.

“What are you gonna do with that?” Stump had asked when they were safely away from the ravens and the princess had called a halt to access damages. The egg was, amazingly, not cracked. Twig was vibrating in excitement over their near miss, buzzing out a fast, musical commentary on how amazing the princess had been.

“Gonna hatch it,” the princess tapped the egg, testing its soundness,”Gonna raise it. Gonna fly it.”

“You are not.”

“Watch me.”

The day ended with the princess threatening Twig and Stump until they swore secrecy both about the day's events and the egg's presence in the dungeon of the fortress. Stump dragged around for a few days, throwing baleful looks at the princess whenever they encountered each other, but there was something like respect in his attitude. He'd seen her jump out in front of a full grown raven and set a flair off in its face. That left an impression.

After five days he finally approached her and asked if he could see the egg when it hatched, please? With the hasty addendum that he'd tell on her if she didn't let him.

She said she'd think about it.

And that if he valued what was left of his nose he wouldn't try anything funny, like eating her egg.

"Don't be stupid," Stump snorted, "You're crazy. There's more crazy then there is you. I'm not gonna mess with crazy."

"Good," the princess let the crack about her size pass this time, "Then you can help me gather food when the chick hatches."

"I won't!"

"Find a shovel, we're going to have to dig for worms."

"I'm not going to!"

 

But, in the end, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have some more garbage
> 
> man I can't wait until these kids are older and the real action starts


	5. Chapter 5

“Why don't you have a name?” Stump asked abruptly

Stump had a trick of staring at you for an uncomfortably long time then blurting out a question that was always rude and usually unpleasantly personal. The princess had come to understand that Stump's mind simply lacked the capacity for tact that came naturally to most other people. It wasn't that he was stupid, far from it, he just seemed to be built along different lines. He didn't seem to quite understand how other people worked or what they wanted from him, so instead he looked for signs of approval and sought to replicate the actions that had prompted it.

Unfortunately, he had taken praise for his strength and ferocity as approval for his bullying. With no one paying particular attention to the orphans Stump's reign of terror over the smaller and younger goblins had remained unchecked for some time.

Until he had watched the princess take on a full grown raven and began to realize it was possible that someone smaller than him might be braver. Or crazier, at least. Stump was a straightforward creature that expected the world to work by certain rules and most of the time it did. The princess, however, did not. He could never be sure if she would behave like other people or suddenly turn on him and come for the rest of his nose.

“Gotta earn a name,” the princess said, keeping her eyes fixed on the murky water of the pond. They were catching tadpoles. At least, the princess was. Stump was poking the water with a stick. Twig was buzzing around over the pond, stabbing her thin limbs into the water when she saw anything move. This was not a very effective method but Twig was having fun.

“I didn't earn my name,” Stump said after some thought, “I just got it.”

“Different for royalty.”

“Why?”

“Have to do something to earn a name. Prove we've got what it takes to be in charge. Just call me Thorn if it bothers you.”

“But that's not your name?”

“Nickname.”

The Brier King's little thorn. Sugar Plum had called her that once and the princess liked it. She was her father's daughter, his weapon. Just a little thorn now, but someday she would be as dangerous as the thick tangle of the briers that trapped unwary creatures in a net of a thousand needles. Someday she would catch the whole of the fairy kingdom in a net of briers and watch them impale themselves as they struggled to escape.

“They gonna call you Raven Queen?” Stump asked.

“Huh,” the princess lifted her eyes away from the pond as she mulled the idea over, “that wouldn't be bad at all.”

“That, or the Mad Queen.”

“Huh.”

The raven chick had hatched, safe and cozy in the dungeons, bathed in the warm light cast by Plum's prison. Plum couldn't do much magic beyond the confines of the cobwebs but she could manage a little heat for the naked gargoyle infesting her cell, as she put it. The princess had filled the corner of the pit with dead leaves and twigs, making a nest cozy enough that she could curl comfortably up with the raven at night.

That left the problem of feeding it.

With food scarce and the children's stomaches rumbling with hunger more often than not, the three of them were hard-pressed to keep up with the ravenous appetite of the hatchling. If not for Stump the princess was sure she would not have been able to forage near enough food. Her time was not often her own. But Stump was overcome with a deep fascination for the ugly baby bird and had even stopped talking about eating it. He quizzed the princess about every aspect of its care and feeding and learned even more by observation and clumsy questioning of older goblins who knew something about ravens.

“I like him,” Stump had said when the princess asked why he helped feed the chick, “He's ugly. He's different. Everything is always the same and he's different.”

At the moment their fishing was not meant to feed the chick. Twig had been sick lately, a rasping wheeze making its way into her usual melodic buzzing. The princess worried all over again about the shriveled little sprite and despite her own state of perpetual hunger she made efforts to provide Twig with better meals. Most of what they fed the chick wasn't fit for them to eat so special efforts had to be made to increase their own diet. There were really very few options, most of the food sources were picked clean for general use. The three of them had to venture dangerously far from home to find a pond with a few tasty creatures still swimming around in it.

The princess snagged a tadpole and added it to the bucket on the rocks, giving Stump a look before he could reach for it.

“Wish we could catch a frog,” Stump grumped.

“Yeah, and get eaten trying,” the princess pointed out.

“You climbed a tree full of ravens. For something we couldn't even eat.”

Twig thrummed happily, dropped a tadpole in the bucket, then settled down on top of Stump's head for a rest. He made no objection to this arrangement.

“Wish we could find more berries or roots,” the princess pushed herself up off the rocks, rolling her shoulders and stretching her legs to loosen her joints and settle her armor back into place, “Gotta ask Plum what water plants are okay to eat.”

“You can eat bulrushes,” Twig hummed, “They're kind of like potatoes.”

Stump crossed his eyes trying to see Twig where she sat on his head, “How do you know?”

“Read it in a book,” Twig vibrated a sigh, her buzzing dreary.

Nobody had any real hope of Twig living to adulthood, she was so small and prone to illness, but on the off chance she did someone decided she ought to be trained in something useful that was within her limited capacity. She was tutored in reading, record keeping, and accounting, none of which she enjoyed in the slightest. Confined as she was it was learning or nothing so she read the books and helped keep inventory of food and supplies.

“Bulrushes don't grow this far in,” the princess said, looking in the direction of the border, “they like sun.”

“That's in fairy territory,” Stump grumbled, “They'd kill us if they saw us. What else does your book say we can eat, Twig?”

“Can't remember.”

“Can I see it?”

“See what?”

“The book.”

“You want to read a book?” Twig and the princess said in unison, looking at Stump in surprise.

“Yeah, so?” Stump narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his torn nose in the beginning of a snarl, “You _both_ read books!”

“Yeah,” the princess said, “But I _have_ to.”

“Me too,” Twig agreed, “They're boring.”

Stump scratched at the loose folds of skin around his neck, muttering, “They seem useful.”

“But boring,” Twig said with a firm flick of her tiny wings.

“Doesn't your stupid sparkle fairy say that there's books with stories? Made up adventures like we tell around the fire, only somebody wrote them a long time ago and it doesn't change every time it gets told?”

“ _Sugar Plum_ ,” the princess corrected, “And, yes. There used to be books like that, but they got left behind when goblins left the castle. Father says they weren't important, we didn't need them.”

“So, they're still there, I guess?”

“I guess.”

“And the castle is nearer the border, near the bulrushes.”

“Yeah?”

“They'd like it if we brought back some bulrushes. And if we're passing the castle on the way there and the way back we could take a look inside and see what's still in there.”

“An adventure!” Twig's wings blurred and she rose up off Stump's head, “An adventure to the castle! It's haunted, I bet it's haunted! I heard that there's a big skull over the entrance and if you try to sneak in it bites down on you, crunch!”

This fit of enthusiasm left Twig wheezing again and she plopped back onto Stump's head. He reached up and patted her side. The princess stared thoughtfully at the dense forest between them and the border.

No one was supposed to go to the castle.

It wasn't safe, they said, left to rot in the damp air rising up from the bog, now a host to a hundred different kinds of dangerous beasts. Even if it weren't perilous to enter it would still have been reviled by the goblins. It was a symbol of defeat, of humiliation at the hands of the fairies. The fairies had begun their march to take the stronghold and so the goblins were forced to abandon their seat of power, their strength too little to withstand another attack.

The Brier King and his family had been the last to leave. The king refused to leave until the last possible moment, staying behind to destroy the narrow bridge that spanned the chasm cutting between the castle and the other side of the forest. It was only when the squad of fairies sent ahead to scout the area stepped into the mouth of the skull that guarded the castle entrance did the king give the order to destroy the bridge. He knocked the supports that held the skull's jaws open himself, crushing the fairy scouts.

The fall of the castle was not a story often told. When the Brier King spoke of the incident it was to curse the stronghold for failing them in their time of need. If his eyes fell on the princess in these moments he would sometimes say, “You died. That was when you died.”

But he gave no details and even though his eyes were on the princess he did not see her.

The words and the emptiness in her father's eyes sent a chill, cold as winter rain, trickling down the princess's spine. In those moments she felt she had never been reborn and was nothing but an immaterial wraith, kept alive by her father's fading memory.

“I would like to see where I died,” the princess said in answer to Stump's suggestion of visiting the empty castle.

The words were empty bravado that she choked out to disguise her fear. She did not want to see the castle, the place that might have been her grave. Perhaps if she went there she would meet herself in the darkness of the ruins, find the ghost of who she was before she died, haunting her tomb.

“Let's go.”

“Really?” Twig flitted over to the princess, trembling with excitement.

“Really,” the princess said, carefully matter-of-fact.

“Can we eat on the way?” Stump asked, pretending his ears hadn't pricked up eagerly when the princess agreed to the crazy expedition.

“ _One_. And you have to carry Twig.”

“I always carry Twig.”

“You've got a nice flat head,” Twig patted his head, “I don't fall off.”

* * *

The day was warm and Bog was sitting in the open window of his room, his nose stuck in a book while he tried not to watch the progress of the sun across the clear sky.

There was a small lunch party he was supposed to attend and he was hoping if he stayed very quiet he would be forgotten. He had already taken care not to mention the appointment to any of the servants so they could not remind him. The clock on the wall had stopped, Bog having “forgotten” to have it wound. The only reminder left was the sun, creeping higher with each passing minute, dragging Bog closer to the engagement.

Bog stared at the printed words before him, rereading the same line for the tenth time, telling himself he was allowed a break. He had gritted his teeth and slogged his way through five different social engagements that week and had been thoroughly princely throughout. Skipping one should hardly matter, he had earned a brief respite from being polite and presentable and suppressing yawns over the endless small talk and gossip served along with tiny sandwiches and decorative tea cakes.

Tiny sandwiches. Tiny cups. Everything was too small for Bog, who was already sprouting nearly a full head above grown men. There didn't seem to be space to put his large boots among the delicate feet of the other nobility, and his hands completely enveloped the delicate cups of tea and glasses of wine. The effort of paying meticulous attention to his every step, every gesture, every word, every flick of his wings, lest he inadvertently trample something, left Bog with a headache and shaking hands.

He cast another quick glance at the sky. Even if he was discovered, perhaps they would discover him too late to get him dressed and presentable in time. After all, he was still dressed in the clothing he had worn to sword practice, dirt and sweat ingrained into the worn folds. His hair was standing in all directions from running his hand through it, and he had taken off his boots in favor of going barefoot in the privacy of his rooms.

Privacy might have been a bit of a stretch, Bog could feel the pixies watching him from across the room.

They had chirped disapproval over his dishevelment and squeaked indignation when he refused to let them fuss him back to tidiness. He had retired to read in the window and the pixies and retreated to his desk to organize his papers and shoot him disgruntled looks.

Unable to focus on the novel, Bog closed it with his finger marking the place he had left off, staring blankly into the interior of the room to avoid watching the sun.

One of the pixies floated silently up behind him to smooth his hair down.

Bog smacked them with his book without turning around to look.

The pixie gave a “hmph!” and flew away, smoothing down the white petals that served as a shirtfront, brushing off the dark leaves of its tiny outer jacket.

“Serves you right,” Bog snorted.

A blob of unused sealing wax bounced off Bog's forehead.

“Wee devils!” Bog turned his book face down on the stone windowsill and stood up, “You _know_ I can't take you to sword practice so stop sulking!”

The pixies trilled skepticism.

“Look, I would let you come, but the others think you'd get hurt--”

The tiny valets made a noise that was as close to harsh as their melodic voices would allow.

“I didn't say _I_ think that. Fine, fine, you bloodthirsty little creatures, get the--”

The pixies had whisked two wooden staffs from a cupboard and tossed one into Bog's hands before he could finish speaking.

Bog hefted the staff, sliding his hands into position to accommodate for the lead weight on one end of it. Dagda had commissioned the practice staff for Bog, making sure it had the same shape and weight as the royal scepter so that the young prince would not go around waving the royal treasure around in the dust of the practice yard.

Ultimately, it hadn't mattered. Swords and spears were the weapons of choice for men of nobility, throwing knives and the bow for women. No one cared for staffs, considering them to be blunt and inelegant, not to mention difficult to wield when wearing armor. None of the weapon masters knew much more than Bog did about staff fighting of any kind and they were reluctant to waste their time watching the prince wave around a stick when they could be focusing on improving his sword work, for they sometimes despaired over their pupil.

It was not that Bog was a bad swordsman, in fact he was quite accomplished. It was just that Bog had a slight problem remembering his footwork when people were watching. The weight of their gaze, of their expectations for the prince to excel, tripped up his feet and tangled his hands so badly that he had gained a reputation for clumsiness. Unobserved, he could execute the techniques with all the flourish and finesse expected of him, but in public he unfailingly made a fool of himself.

The pixies had been an unexpected help, their love of battle discovered when Bog had asked them to hold up another staff so he could feint some passes at it. He had not expected them to mimic him, or for them to knock him to the floor. Surprise and pain aside, Bog had been pleased with this development and often made use of the pixies to practice. Pixies had no expectations to trip him up.

Chairs and tables were whisked out of the way and placed neatly around the edges of the room, allowing ample space for sparring. When possible Bog liked to take them to spar outside, but leaving his rooms attracted attention, more often than not, and he would find himself followed by footmen or some young noble looking to befriend the prince. Inside was much safer, all things considered. The pixies kept anything important from being broken.

A gentle but firm knock sounded on the door just as Bog was placing his feet.

He tripped on the edge of the carpet and dropped his staff, only a quick flick of his wings keeping him from falling over completely.

“Lady to see you, your highness,” a footman said, having mistaken Bog's muffled cursing for permission to open the door, “A Miss Elinor.”

Elinor was in the room the moment she was announced, hefting two large, square, paper-wrapped parcels onto the nearest table. She pulled her hands free from the loops of string that had served as handles, curtsying as the door shut behind her.

Bog stood there, barefoot, panicking, and temporarily unable to move.

He had expected to receive the list of book buyers at some point, delivered to him by a footman, perhaps with a polite note from Elinor attached. He had not expected to see her in person again until he decided it was safe to start visiting the library again.

“Sorry, your highness, to burst in on you . . .” Elinor rose from her curtsy, trailing off when she lifted her eyes to see the state of the crown prince.

“I-I was just—just . . .” Bog stammered, wondering if the fall would kill him if he tied his wings down and jumped out the window. He felt heat wash over his face, no doubt turning him red from collar to forehead.

The pixies were smoothing out his hair, their expressions smug.

Bog waved them away, “Get off! Um. Miss Elinor, I wasn't expecting . . . visitors.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, neutrally polite, her hands folded at her waist. Her hair was twisted into bun at the back of her head and she was dressed for flying, looking only a bit dusty, as if she had been out paying calls. A few tiny curls had come loose over her ears, far prettier than the artificial ringlets Bog saw the women of the court wearing.

“Let me just, um--” Bog turned around twice before he saw that two pixies had dropped his shoes on the floor next to him. He stepped into the shoes, smoothing back his hair with the heel of his hand, wishing he was wearing a clean shirt, “I apologize, Miss Elinor, for--”

“ _I_ apologize,” Elinor said quickly, “It's my fault for coming here unannounced.”

“No, that's fine. You're fine. I just . . . wasn't expecting visitors.”

“Yes, you mentioned.”

“Yes. I did. Right. Sorry.”

The stilted conversation hit a wall and for an eternity they both stood there, trying to think of some way to alleviate the awkwardness of the meeting, or at least gracefully end it. Bog's mind was an unfortunate blank except for the corner of it that was screaming in embarrassment.

“Oh, the books!” Elinor's eyes had been glued slightly to the left of Bog's head, but now a smile lit up her face and she actually looked at him, “I brought you some books, your highness!”

“You can just call me--”

“I got in touch with some of the people who bought the books,” Elinor began unwrapping the packages she had brought with her, “to see if they would mind selling them back to you.”

“You didn't have to--”

“They were quite willing and will be waiting to hear from you about it In the meantime, they sent me back with some volumes they thought you might be interested in. I hope you don't mind that I mentioned you, Prince Kenneth, when I approached them, I didn't think until later that it might not be appropriate without your permission . . .”

“No, no! It's fine!” Bog waved his hands, managing to get a word in at last, “I appreciate your efforts. You didn't have to--”

“It was no trouble at all, your highness! It was a pleasure, really. As long as you don't mind, that is.”

“It's fine. Really. And, please, just call me Bog!” He spoke in a rush, trying to get all the words out before he was interrupted again or lost his nerve, “My second name is Boggart and it was my father who was called Kenneth, so . . . I'm Bog.”

“Oh, thank you, your highness,” Elinor's eyes squinted up as she winced, “I mean, Bog. Thank you, Bog. I'm sorry, my court manners aren't the most polished. Or practiced. Or used at all really. Except for the occasional 'yes, your ladyship' or 'this way, your lordship' I don't really deal with nobility so you'll have to forgive me for . . . chattering.”

Elinor covered her mouth with one hand, “I would like to just fall through the floor now, please.”

“What?” Bog had crossed his arms to hide the dirt on the front of his shirt and to make himself look a little smaller. Also, to keep him from making his hair any worse by dragging his hands through it nervously, “Why?”

“You're being so polite,” Elinor picked up a book and put it in front of her face, “Even though I waltzed in here without so much as sending in a card.”

“I, uh, wouldn't have minded more notice,” Bog admitted, “I would have put on my shoes.”

A giggle escaped around the side of the book Elinor was holding up.

“I was actually sort of looking for a reason to not go to a lunch party. I don't do well at parties. Or talking.”

Stop talking, stop talking, why can't you just stop talking.

“You forgive me for not sending in my card?” Elinor peeked over the edge of the book.

“Of course!”

“Good! Because I don't even have any calling cards! I didn't even think about what the etiquette might be until the footman looked at me like I was some sort of piece of furniture that had suddenly started talking. I think he thought I was some sort of delivery person who had come to the wrong door.”

Bog laughed a little, his face starting to cool down, “So, what were you delivering?”

“Books about your clan!” Elinor handed him the book she had been using as a mask, “They had copies of some books that aren't so rare and sent them as a gift to the prince. I was invited to tea by several old men and ladies who told me about how ten or fifteen years ago there was a sudden popularity for your clan's traditions. I think a cousin of yours had a grand wedding and did everything in the old style. Anyway, a lot of books were dug up and reprinted at the time, new ones written.”

“Yes, I remember that wedding.”

The wedding had been nine years ago. Bog had been eight. His cousin Heather had been eighteen. Nearly the same age he was now. But she hadn't lived to be much older, dying five years later, another victim of the plague, along with her husband and their infant son. The baby, Ethan, had died first.

Bog had carried Ethan out of the sickroom and to the pyre.

“The old dear who gave me this one about Kohl patterns says she was at your cousin's wedding,” Elinor said, continuing to unpack the books, “She used to be a friend of the bride's family and a member of the court, but she fell out of favor when the new court was formed. Poor thing, she talks about you like you were family, bragging about Kenneth and how he'll be a great king.”

“Is her name . . .” Bog stared at the cover of the book Elinor had handed him, trying to conjure up the name in the embossed leather, “Is her name Olivia?”

“It is! Do you know her?”

“I remember that she's a cousin of a cousin.”

“Well, she and all the other people I talked to basically invited you to tea. They'd never dream of actually extending an invitation to you, but it's safe to say they would all like to meet the prince. I got cornered for hours, hearing about their glory days in court!”

“I'm afraid I'd be rather a disappointment to them.”

Bog looked up, remembering the lunch party. The sun was higher, but not high enough for him to be too late to get ready for it. But he couldn't imagine making himself go, not now. Not with the lump of cold weight that had settled in the pit of his stomach at the memory of his cousin Heather and her family. He couldn't bear the thought of walking through the castle along corridors so very like the one he had carried Ethan through, that very last time.

“How shocked do you think Madam Olivia would be if we showed up on her doorstep?” Bog asked, looking back down at the book.

“Thrilled to death,” Elinor replied, “Why?”

“Are you busy right now? I mean, would you be free to . . . I'd like to meet Madam Olivia.”

“Right now?” Elinor raised her eyebrows, “This minute?”

“Just about. I _am_ trying to avoid that lunch.”

“Oh, I see,” Elinor giggled, “No, I'm not busy. I would be delighted to take you and Madam Olivia would be _ecstatic_ to meet you. Are we going to sneak out the window?”

“Uh, yes, actually.”

“Better and better! Is it any sort of crime, to abduct a prince if he's abducted willingly?”

“I suppose we'll find out when we get back.”


	6. Chapter 6

Mist was still gathered in hollows around the castle ruins. It slithered up from the bog and trickled around tree roots, sheltering itself where the sun could not reach and banish it with the heat of its rays.

The three goblin children followed the path of the mist, submerged in it like they were swimming under the surface of a pond. Twig clung to princess's back, her antenna tickling at the back of the princess's neck when the little sprite shivered, half in fear, half in excitement.

Listening to unseen creatures scuttling around them in the leaves, the princess was once again considering that perhaps it had been more foolhardy than brave to go on this adventure so far from home. She reminded herself, again, that she had braved the nests of ravens. Exploring crumbling ruins would be nowhere near as dangerous or exciting. The noises of the forest were no different here than anywhere else. It was just . . . it felt like a dead place. A carapace cracked open to scoop out the flesh, leaving it empty. And empty things were always filled, by creature or plants. What else could fill this broken stronghold but the ghosts of those that died defending it?

A sharp, splintering crack made the princess drop into a crouch and flair her wings to make her small shape look imposing. Twig fell off with a squeak, her tiny wings barely managing to make sure she landed upright and not on her back.

“That was me,”” Stump said, sounding more petulant than startled, “stepped on a thing.”

“Well _don't_ step on things!” the princess hissed, dropping her wings and standing up straight.

“Just some bones,” Stump held up a length of yellow bone, the end broken into a sharp point. He gave it a couple bites to see if it was worth chewing on.

“You don't know where that's _been_ ,” Twig said, disgusted.

“Yeah, I do. It's been right here.”

The princess kicked around in the mist until her toes knocked some more bones loose. Bones could be useful. Good to chew on, especially for little ones with their growing fangs. Good for soup broth. Good for decoration. Good for weapons, even if they broke quickly. Better a broken blade than none at all.

The princess picked up a skull. It was missing its lower jaw so it's smile was incomplete. Actually, the half a smile left was strange, all the teeth square and dull. A couple teeth fell out when the princess turned it back and forth to look at the strange round skull. No fangs.

“It think it's a fairy skull.”

Stump blinked, looked at the bone he held, shrugged, and kept chewing.

“Ooooh!” Twig said, fascinated, “It's so weird!”

The princess passed the skull off to Twig, who happily examined it, sticking her little pointed hands through the eye sockets. Doing some more kicking, the princess turned up a metal helmet which must have been housing the skull and preserving it against being crushed. There were more bits and pieces of twisted metal and broken bones in the little hollow along with a few broken arrow shafts.

“Weird,” Stump said, picking up pieces of bone and stabbing them into a root so they made a bleached little fence, “they're really . . . they break easy.”

“Fragile,” the princess supplied, putting on the helmet to see how it fit, “Delicate.”

“Brittle,” Twig suggested.

“Yeah, those.”

The helmet was too big and the princess couldn't see out of the eye slit. It also smelled like something had died in it. Which was only to be excepted, actually. She took if off and scratched lines through the rust, seeing if there were enough metal left in it to be useful. There wasn't. She wedged it under a root so they wouldn't trip over it on their way back.

“I wanna keep it,” Twig held up the skull, “Nobody else has a fairy skull.”

“We'll get it on the way back.”

“I get the next skull we find,” Stump declared, “'specially if it's got a dent in it.”

“I want a sword,” the princess said, crouching down so Twig could get on her back, “a fairy sword so I can kill them all with their own weapon.”

“What does it matter how you kill 'em so long as they end up dead?” Stump asked, “They don't care.”

“It's ironic.”

“I thought swords were steel.”

“I mean, funny in a backwards way.”

“Oh. Okay. I guess.”

The castle stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the bog, too high for the mist to reach at this time of day. It might have looked like any other stump or log except for an eeriness that the princess could not detect the source of. It was probably the stories casting shadows on the place, her own thoughts distorting it. After all, she had been here before. Died here. Visiting your own grave was indeed an eerie thing.

“It's got no plants on it,” said Stump.

The princess saw this was true. No vines had crept over the castle, no moss growing soft on the wood, or mushrooms springing up from the damp rot. It was bare wood, crumbling with rot and supporting no life. That was what had unsettled the princess. An inhabited castle would have been similarly clean of unnecessary growth, but in an abandoned ruin it was uncanny, as if something did still inhabit it.

“It's cursed!” Twig whispered in delight.

“Might be,” the princess agreed, thinking of Aura. Maybe she had done something. Or had been made to do something. Maybe . . . maybe there was no life left here because it had been put in the princess. She put her hand to her chest, feeling the beat of her heart beneath her carapace. Had the castle been lost twice? Once to fairies, once as a sacrifice to bring the dead back? Because after the war the goblins could have returned to the castle. The fairies left, having no use for anything in the forest. Was this why they had never gone back?

* * *

 Bog should have never gone back.

He tightened his hands on the book he held to hide his shaking hands. There was no air, no sound, only swirling gray before his eyes.

He had sat and talked with the once grand lady and spoken of dead people. For a little while they lived in his memory, painted in vibrant colors. Their smiles, their joy, it all returned to him, softening the shell around his heart. But all too soon his memories of the living were overtaken by the memories of the dead. Their faces, colored with life, turned gray and stiff. The contrast of memories slammed into him so hard that he felt sure it had crushed his chest, splinters of bones piercing his heart and lungs.

Why hadn't he died with them? Why did he have to survive just to carry all their ghosts?

Even though Bog could hardly breathe, his training in courtly manners made his farewells warm and courteous. Stepping out into the sunlight jarred him and dispelled the swirling gray that had clouded his eyes. The day was warm and the air was heavy with the perfume of the fields. Insects thrummed in the grass like the beating of a living pulse. It was nothing like the cold stone walls of the castle, scorched by flames and smudged with smoke.

This was his kingdom. It lived, breathed, and was filled with people, not with ghosts.

“Goodness, we should have brought a wagon with us!”

Elinor pulled several padded straps of leather from her pockets and began to wrap them around the books. She quickly fastened them, leaving a loop on the top that the package could be carried by.

“Here!” She took the book Bog was carrying and dumped one of the stacks of books into his hands, “One for you, one for me. I'll help you carry them all back on the condition that I get to read them.”

“Of—of course!” Bog clutched the books to his chest, struggling to reenter the swiftly moving currents of the world that flowed around him, “You're welcome to. Any time you like.”

“I don't know what's stranger,” Elinor mused as they walked the path away from the humble residence, “that I'm bullying a prince, or that he's letting me bully him.”

“I'm not doing anything I don't want to,” Bog mumbled, unwrapping his arms from around the books and taking them by the handle. This left his other hand free to rub nervously up and down the back of his neck and run his fingers around the inside of his collar.

Bog truly wished to spend more time with Elinor. All the time that it was possible to spend with her. She was such a happy person. Her dark face alight with energy, her shoulders free of the weight of tragedy. Her movements were sure, she wasted no energy worrying about what others thought or trying to please them. She was . . . free.

“Then you won't mind showing me what my eye markings would be, and helping me paint them on my face?”

The thought of being close enough to draw the patterns on Elinor's face made Bog stumble over his own feet.

Elinor laughed, “Okay, I said that just to see you blush.”

“You're—you're horrible!” Bog said, hand over the lower half of his face to mask the crimson flush that had spread down his neck and up to the tips of his ears.

“You're too easy!” Elinor looped her arm through his and pulled him toward the bustle of the town, “Before I actually talked to you I only ever saw you looking gray and serious. It's fun to see you act like a person instead of a tired marble statue. And you need a little color in your face. Don't you ever go outside?”

“If I spend too much time in the sun I . . . I freckle.”

“Aw, that's cute.”

“It isn't! They're . . . they're everywhere! My face looks like someone splattered me with paint! I mean, _you_ have cute freckles on your nose and cheeks, but I just look like—like some sort of spotted goblin.”

“That's a little extreme, don't you think? Unless the sun makes your skin dry and scaly too.”

This made Bog snort in brief amusement. He had heard so many people earnestly deny his ugliness, their lies blatant attempts to get into the prince's good graces. It was refreshing to have it treated as the inarguable fact it was.

“No, I'm never scaly. Only prickly,” Bog exaggeratedly scratched his chin, making the stiff stubble on his face rasp under his fingernails. It was barely the middle of the afternoon and he already could have used another shave.

“Then you are not a goblin, you are a nettle bush.”

“And what, pray tell, are you, Miss Elinor?”

“I?” Elinor assumed an air of dignity, straightening her back and throwing back her shoulders, “I . . . am a librarian!”

“Oh, so they're a different breed, are they?”

“Of course! We have ink instead of blood, wings of parchment, and a rubber stamp for a heart.”

“That explains madam Tiffany. You don't really seem to have a stamp instead of a heart.”

“Don't be fooled, I'm only using our friendship to get access to rare books.”

 _Friendship_?

Bog's heart stuttered. When it evened out again a grin spread over his face and he could not suppress it. He must have looked a a fool, his crooked teeth bared in a monstrous smile, but he was just too glad.

Elinor was his friend.

* * *

The princess led her companions down to the bog, saying that there might be something eatable there. It would be good to know if there was anything worth coming back for later on. It was not a tactic to avoid going into the castle, it was simple practicality.

The first thing Twig did when they reached the bog was to fly over it and drop herself into the scummy water, “My arms are tired from holding on to you,” she said, “I want to float.”

“If anything nibbles your toes, fly up,” the princess cautioned.

“Mmhm,” Twig said, bobbing up and down in the water, buzzing her wings in short burst to propel herself toward an interesting looking stick.

“Don't like it down here,” Stump said, squishing through the shallows.

“You can go back up.”

“Nah,” Stump picked up and rock and rubbed some of the mud off it. It was a smooth oval and Stump slid his hands back and forth over it, “If I leave you'll get eaten or something.”

“What, and you'd heroically get eaten too?”

“Nah. I'd grab Twig and run.”

Twig burbled happily in the water.

The princess tipped her head to one side, “Good plan. Watch Twig.”

The mist cleared a little around the princess when she beat her wings, flying just above the surface of the water, catching glimpses of her own reflection where the water was clear of plants and scum. She pulled herself up to clear a pile of rocks and twigs that loomed up out of the softly swirling mist. The princess set down on top of the pile and scrabbled around in the nooks and crannies of it for a few minutes. A few insects scuttled and buzzed away when she disturbed them, otherwise there was nothing of particular interest. Digging her claws into the cracks in the rocks, the princess crawled headfirst down the pile and toward the water, looking for interesting plants.

Beads of water gathered on her head, rolling down the tips of the leaves that covered her head, and to the point of her nose. Her wings were getting heavy and she beat them hard once or twice to fling off the water.

It was quiet here. Heavy silence that ate up your footsteps, wing beats, and words so that you were nothing but a dark little shape in the unending land of white. This land could have been no bigger than the edges of the pile the princess was standing on. Or it could have gone on forever, taking over fields and forest until there was nothing but silence.

She didn't like it.

But she wasn't afraid.

Something rattled.

The princess squeaked and snagged her wings in her claws trying to climb back up the pile of wreckage.

“What are you doing?” Stump called, “Are you being eaten?”

“No!”

“Then why did you shriek?”

“I didn't shriek!”

“Sounded like a shriek.”

“Maybe your ears work as well as your nose!”

Stump growled while Twig giggled. The princess resumed exploring.

Settling her wings back and crouching on all fours, the princess reasoned that she had not jumped because she was afraid. It had been only her keen instincts that made her put ground between her and an unknown foe. Her heartbeat had quickened and her limbs shook in anticipation of battle, not out of fear.

There were no ghosts here.

Creeping once more to the base of her island, the princess stirred the water with her finger, pushing away wet clumps of plants. She idly cleared a space big enough to be a mirror and let the water settle, watching her reflection slowly come to rest on the bog's surface. The light was behind her and she tipped her head back and forth, trying to get a look at herself. She bared her teeth in the most terrifying grin she could make, stretching her mouth until lips hurt and her cheeks felt squashed. Her reflection looked pleasingly terrifying. Fairies would faint at the sight of it.

Something pale caught the light when the princess moved her head. She leaned closer to the water, wings spread above her to caught her if she fell. Her nose touched the water and she had to wait for the ripples to settle, but when they did—

“Are you sure you aren't being eaten?” Stump called.

“Yes, I'm sure!”

“Then stop hollering like you are.”

“Two things,” the princess flew back and picked Twig up out of the water, “don't drink the bog water.”

“I just made bubbles,” Twig said, legs trailing in the water, “I'm not stupid.”

“Yeah, but Stump is.”

“ _You're_ stupid! Dumb, scrawny cockroach.”

“You'd _run_ if you saw a roach coming.”

“Not if it were as skinny as you!”

“What was the second thing?” Twig asked.

“There . . . there's another body. In the bog.”

“Another fairy?”

“No . . . a person.”

“Oh,” Twig and Stump's eyes went wide. Twig snatched her feet out of the water.

The pile of sticks creaked with all three of them standing on it, leaning forward to look at the face resting underneath the quieting water. A goblin skull. They looked at it with unease. The fangs were cracked. The flat plains of the top of the skull was scored with the mark of a blade. A fallen soldier. Killed by fairies.

“Who were they?” Twig touched the water, ripples hiding the skull.

“Someone brave. Loyal,” the princess said. Someone who had died for her. A ghost.

“This isn't fun,” Stump said, blunt and to the point, “let's go up to the castle and look for books.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I can't believe we found so many books,” Bog said, yet again.

“Books are everywhere and in massive numbers, trust me. They blend into the landscape—or housescape—and people stop noticing them. Except librarians. We can hear the bookworms breathing between manuscript pages.”

Bog smiled, at the joke and at Elinor's devotion to the printed and written word. Her family had not fared well after the war and plague and she had been shuffled off into a respectable line of work as quickly as possible, she had told him.

“It all worked out in the end. Surprisingly. I've taken to cataloging like a bee to nectar. Everything all sorted, shelved, stacked. I'm not a tidy person, but I love the order of a library.”

Bog and Elinor were in the garden, sheltered from the summer sun by the roof of a white and lacy gazebo. Books were spread out on a white wicker table and Dawn was spread out on the floor with her picture books. She was reading one to a stuffed flea named Minerva Felicity the Fifth, grand duchess of the daisies.

“You would have the pattern of knowledge,” Bog showed Elinor the illustrations of painted faces, “add a dot and that specifies you're the keeper of knowledge.”

“Oh, very nice. I want that to my job title from now on. Elinor, the Keeper of Knowledge, Guardian of the Written Word, Protector of Obscure Literature. What signs would go on your face?”

“Marks of a crown prince, which is different than just a prince. A sign of my clan. Lines under my eyes mean that I'm the last of my family or clan.”

 Don't think about that. The day was beautiful. Don't think about ugly things.

“Aren't there warrior marks, too?” Elinor asked, taking the book to see the pictures better.

“Yes, but I don't qualify. I've never proven myself.”

“In battle?”

“Or in protection of the kingdom, duels and things.”

“I see. Well, let's hope you don't have an opportunity to prove yourself. I like peace and quiet. Unless you're going to be one of those kings who aren't happy if they're not picking a fight with their neighbors?”

“You shouldn't fight,” Dawn said from the floor, “you get your clothes dirty and people get mad at you.”

“Wise words.” Bog and Elinor nodded solemn agreement, smiling surreptitiously at each other when Dawn returned to her book.

Bog's stomach flip-flopped. The understanding without words was not something he had had in a long time. Someone to turn to, meet their eyes, and both acknowledge that they got the joke. It was becoming comfortable to invite Elinor to spend time with him, to talk about himself, to learn more about her. There was no need to be on his guard, to fear that he would be thought silly and weak.

She even liked the same poetry that Bog did.

Bog spun a pencil in his fingers.

Elinor tried to do the same and almost stabbed herself.

“You make that look easy, it isn't fair. But I bet you can't walk across the room with six books on your head, Prince Slouch.”

“Why would I ever need to do that? Why would _you_?”

“Slow afternoons.”

Elinor gathered up a stack of books and lifted them onto her head. She paraded around the gazebo twice, shoulders back and head high. Dawn and Bog goggled. The pixies twittered with anxiety, trying to take the books off. Elinor waved a hand, slow and graceful, to brush the pixies away. She even curtsied to Bog without dislodging the books.

The books did fall to their doom, however, when a messenger announced her presence with what could be considered unnecessary abruptness.

“Oh, that isn't _fair._ ” Elinor cried, “These books better not to be damaged. Bog, if they're damaged can you have her beheaded or thrown in the dungeon or something? As a favor to me?”

“Surely,” Bog said, still in good spirits, in spite the interruption.

“Your highness,” the messenger bowed, “before you exact justice may I request time enough to deliver my message and to say goodbye to my loved ones?”

This response surprised Bog so much he couldn't even laugh. Servants treated him with stiff politeness and avoided him if they could. They all seemed determined to act as much like moving furniture as possible and offer no unnecessary words to the gloomy prince.

The messenger was growing obviously uncomfortable at the prince's lack of reaction and probably worried she had just lost her job and gained the prince's displeasure.

“I--” Bog fumbled for a moment, “I—that is, if you seek mercy, you should seek it from the offended party. I will do as she wishes.”

He mustered up an elaborate bow, as if offering respect to a visiting queen. For all the times he had made serious attempts to bow properly it was ironic that the one time he got it right was when it was in jest.

“Better hear the message first,” Elinor advised, her attitude regal.

“Off with her head!” Dawn urged.

“Your highness,” the messenger bowed again.

“Miss,” Bog bowed back.

“If it pleases you, your highness, I bear with me greetings from the Regent Dagda who requests your presence in his study at your earliest convenience.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“Doesn't what?”

“Please me.”

“Forgive me, your highness. Add this incident to the list of charges against me.”

It almost felt as if the friendly exchange of silliness were happening without Bog's permission. Some part of him stood and step back and watched the goings on with bafflement. He knew the girl's face, vaguely, but had never spoken more than to offer her brief thanks for a message delivered. Never had he risked such friendliness with anymore.

“I—I'd better go,” Bog stammered, the two halves of him coming back together with a jolt that ended the brief spell that had loosened his tongue. His wings and hands were suddenly heavy and in the way and he didn't know what to do with them.

“Are we going to behead her?” Dawn questioned, looking around as if a battle ax would be propped in a corner, “if we're not I'm going to go pick flowers.”

“I suppose we have to hold a trial before we can get underway,” Elinor sighed, “so we'll let her off until then.”

“Would you kids quit goofing around?” Griselda called out, reminding everyone that she had been napping on a chair underneath the shade of a nearby bush, “Dagda doesn't have all day to wait on you, boy. And, Ellie, child, don't you ever go to the library anymore?”

“Pooh, it's my day off, Griselda, don't bully me.”

“All of you,” Griselda got up and trotted toward the gazebo, “off and away to where you ought to be. Ellie, honey, help me clean up this mess. Dawn, it isn't nice to let all your friends lay in the dirt, go pick them up. Bog, why are you still standing there? Go!”

Bog and Elinor exchanged glances of mingled amusement and annoyance.

Bog left with a smile on his face.

Griselda watched him leave and shook her head, “Completely smitten.”

* * *

Shiny things were bad.

Shiny things caught the light and lit up sparks to give away your position, attracting birds, insects, and all variety of beasts. Metal was honed to sharpness but blackened to dull the shine. Flint was used as well, but even that had a shine that must be masked.

The broken sword Marianne had found in the castle was bright as sunlit water when she cleaned the rust off. There was no trace of anything having been painted on it. The weapon had been carried into battle, bright and bold.

Stump, Twig, and the princess had returned home with their arms full. Twig was cuddling her fairy skull and Stump had one arm wrapped around some bones and rocks which he insisted he needed to have.

The princess's prize was the broken sword she had pulled out of the ribcage of a goblin skeleton they had been forced to move to get in through a crack in the wall of the castle. The leather that had wrapped around the handle broke apart into rotten pieces when the princess touched it and the blade was broken so that only a few inches remained. The end of the hilt was shaped like the bud of a flower.

Had she been killed by something like this?

The thought made her uneasy.

She took the broken sword to spite the uneasiness. She was brave. She was strong. Until she could find a whole blade she would take this fragment and learn the feeling of it in her hand.

“A club would be better.” was Stump's opinion.

“We didn't get any cattails.” Twig pointed out.

Stump and the princess groaned at the idea of walking any further and having to carry a cattail all the way back home. Their legs were tired and Marianne felt a shaking tiredness in her head like she got when listening to an angry lecture from her father. Her brain was tired. Her heart was tired.

She had really thought that she would find something in the castle. Answers to questions or even just ghosts of slain warriors. But there was nothing. Nothing but bones, stripped of all life. The books had rotted on the shelves, no magic to protect them. Whatever grand decorations had adorned the halls were gone, leaving only scars in the wood where they had hung. Nothing. Not even ghosts. The glory of the old days was gone, every last trace smashed and splintered and looted.

Empty. Nothing but bones. No reason left to exist.

“Let's—let's consider this a re—reconnaissance,” the princess said to her tried companions.

“A re-what?” Stump asked.

“Scouting.” Twig replied.

“Oh.”

Stump mumbled the word 'reconnaissance' to himself while the princess declared that they would get a cattail next time.

“Can we peek through the border after that?” Twig twitched her wings at the exciting thought.

“Yeah,” the princess nodded.

To know the enemy, that was good. That was smart. Dangerous, yes, but danger meant the rewards were better. There was danger in hunting and without facing it you would starve. Danger was something she needed to face and rip apart with her claws and teeth.

There was danger.

She was not afraid.

She was not empty. She was full of courage and of reasons. She had not been born into this world to wander like most. She had been forged for a reason and a path lay before her. It was twisted, gnarling around the trees. Somewhere at the end it broke into the land of sunlight. Her world to conquer. That empty castle would be burnt to ashes and she would build a stronger one in its place. The weakness and defeat of her people would burn and blow away like ashes on the wind and something new would be born.

Like her. The old and died and the new took its place.

Not afraid, she told herself that night, burrowing herself into the warm dust around her raven, letting the heat sink into her. It soothed the bruises she had earned as punishment for running off all day. She would ride her raven, glittering sword in hand, and make her father proud.

* * *

“A duke from the borders has announced that he wants to break ties with the throne.”

Dagda's study was airy and comfortable but Bog always felt depressing there. The weight of Dagda's expectations, of the kingdom's, always settled more heavily on him there. The news dropped on him like a stone, bowing his shoulders even further down.

“Why?” Bog asked, because he was expected to, “without the protection of our soldiers the border kingdom is left vulnerable to attacks from the forest.”

“They say it's unnecessary now, that the goblins have been subdued and are no more dangerous than scavenging insects. Which, they say, is well within their strength to deal with.”

“True enough, I suppose, but why make a fuss and estrange us?”

“It's a statement,” Dagda replied, looking tried and gray.

His years of ruling as regency had kept him behind a desk more often than in the sun and his round stomach and gray face reflected that. He had expected to have only a brief reign, he had told Bog, until the time of crisis was past and someone more suitable could take the responsibilities on their shoulders. Except no one more suitable had appeared and the weight remained on Dagda's shoulders, heavier than Bogs, no doubt, but never pulling them into a hesitant slouch. Head high, he never flinched at the endless drudgery before him.

“Statement?” Bog prompted. There was a queasiness growing in his stomach. If the border dukedom had abandoned all available channels of working with the court and bluntly declared independence something serious must have caused it. “Statement of what?”

“It's . . . complicated.”

The hesitation and wording were all the answers Bog needed. Dagda always dealt frankly with his foster-son, hiding no aspect of ruling from the future king. There was only one subject that made Dagda evasive.

“I see. What is their objection to me this time? Or is it one of the classics?”

Bog growled. Anger made his voice drop lower and accented, for all his work to talk in clear, light tones. Anxiety unsettled his stomach. Anger burned his throat. If they attacked only him he would take it with resignation. They rarely did. They would attack his lineage, his parents, the culture of his people. How, they asked could the remnant of a extinct people rule over those who had no ties of allegiance to him? Why should they put up with a king with outdated, barbaric ways? So backward that a plague spread because of their filthy habits?

Prince Kenneth was an unlucky child, his difference marked on his wings, his face, his manner. If he ruled then misfortune would fall over the land, just as it did when his father had ruled.

“They want one of 'their own' to rule them,” Dagda admitted.

Once again Bog was wistfully regretful that he had not followed his family. He was not dead, but he was treated as if he were dead. A lingering ghost that the living were trying to exorcise. If he had died then the court would be happy, the weight of Dagda's rule lightened. Dawn would be the crown princess and the kingdom would adore her, looking forward to a bright future under her kind rule. A queen of beauty. A queen of their own kind.

“And if they can't then they'll do their own ruling,” Bog finished, “have you thought of what to do?”

“The council and I are still discussing options. I was thinking you should start attending. This is your future, after all, and you have a right to fight for it.”

Of course he would fight. He would fight until his last breath. Because why did he live if he was not to be king? Bog would hold onto his power, the power inherited from his parents. He did not die and he would not let them bury him and the memory of his people in a tidy little grave.

He traced the pattern of crown prince besides his eye with a finger, imagining the black lines painting his skin. Another barbaric custom of old.

"Of course I'll fight."

And he would win


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All these scruffy children need hugs

Autumn was on its way, adding a crisp chill to the air in the mornings and evenings. Yet summer was not entirely usurped and the day could begin with the air so chilled that the breath of any creature foolish enough to be shivering outside was puffed out white, but by noon a muggy heat smothered the forest and everything sweltered miserably.

The sweaty dampness was heaviest in the dungeon and the princess felt like she could barely breath. The raven chick suffered similarly, panting rapidly to try and cool itself.

It was big enough now that it usually hopped and fluttered around the dungeon, pecking at pebbles in the hope they might be food. It cried a lot. Less than when it was newly hatched, desperate with hunger. But it was still always hungry. Three small goblins with little free time were no match for the bird's appetite.

The princess lay in the bottom of one of the hanging cages, spread out like a wet rag left to dry on a rack. The chick peeped underneath the cage. It was too tired to stretch its neck and nibble the princess's dangling foot and beg for food.

“Are you awake, sweetie?” Aura asked after the princess had been still for the better part of an hour. Weather meant nothing to Aura except how it affected her little thorn and so Aura looked as fresh and ethereal as usual.

“I'm dead.”

“Oh, dear. Who will conquer the fairies if you're dead?”

“If this weather hasn't killed them then nothing could. Let me be dead. Drop me in the bog.”

The princess remembered the fallen warrior in the bog and winced at her own words. Not the bog. A stream would be nice, fresh running water. It would still be horrible with the air hanging around in damp misery. A breeze. Running water and a breeze.

“If you were near me I could--” Aura began, sparkles dancing around her wiggling fingers.

“No magic.” The princess interrupted, “I'm not a grub. Don't fuss.”

“If you don't want me to do anything about the heat then stop complaining about it! And are you just going to hang there like a rotting side of frog all day?”

“Yes. Because I'm dead.”

“I raised you better than that.”

“Don't pick at my corpse like this. Leave it for the chick.”

The chick peeped agreement.

“That wretched bony monster has consumed enough of your time and resources without adding your own body to its plate. How are you ever going to keep it up with just the three of you?”

“Six.”

“Six? Six what?”

“Six of you. Of us. Six of us. I've been recruiting.”

“You have?”

“Chick needed more food and a lot of the kids would rip each other's ears off to feed a raven. I found three girls who'll help. They won't tell because they're scared of Stump and even more scared of me.”

“I'm so glad that your intimidation tactics are making you friends.”

“Can't ravage the fairy kingdom alone. It would take too long.”

“Also glad to see your self-confidence is in tip-top shape.”

“Ugh.” The princess turned over and let her arms dangle through the bottom of the cage. The chick watched the swaying of the princess's hands with a greedy eye and squawked sadly. The princess looked into the chick's shiny round eyes for a while before saying, “We're going outside.”

“That's nice, dear. Make sure the chicky has enough water before you go.”

“No, _we_ are going outside.”

* * *

“I need to go outside.”

The airy structure of the building let in as much light an air as any fairy could desire, but Bog felt like he was suffocating. Bog would have ripped off his formal cape and the medallion that hung around his neck on a chain if the pixies hadn't whisked the items off his shoulders the moment he entered the room. He did manage to throw his stack of documents on the floor and step on one of his smudged pages of notes. He twisted his foot back and forth until the paper started to tear.

Step down.

They wanted him to _step down_.

The dukedom declaring independence had set a precedent for the other landowners when they realized that the risk of using such leverage was very little. They were all making alliances and treaties, banding together behind the demand that Prince Kenneth give up his right to the throne in favor of Dagda and Dagda's family line.

The room was tilting and Bog had to grab a shelf to keep himself from falling. So many of them were against him. He had had no idea so many despised him.

“If you truly care for your kingdom and its people,” they had said a dozen times in a dozen different ways, “you would do all you could to keep it safe, sacrifice anything to keep it whole and at peace.” It was scratched out onto paper a hundred times, spoken so often that the words hung in the meeting room like cobwebs, hammered into Bog's ears like nails, where they buzzed and stung and gave him no peace.

A shelf full of books crashed on the floor with such a crash that a guard opened the door to check on the prince. The guard saw the crown prince was standing, unharmed, and ripping up a book. The guard closed the door again.

It was the insidious grain of truth that pained Bog most.

If you care about your people you'll step down.

Step down.

Give up.

Bog flung the book down. The pixies chittered over the mangled pages in horror. Bog tried to breathe, catch his breath, quiet his mind. He couldn't. He felt like a wild animal, driven mad with pain, desperately pointlessly running around to find some sort of relief. Then something would touch the wound and he would be driven into a new frenzy.

Dagda. Dagda had looked so tired. He looked like a man already defeated, only waiting for the formalities to be finished. He met Bog's eyes and Bog could see—almost hear—that Dagda was going to ask him to consider giving up. Dagda did not want the throne, but neither did he want a kingdom fractured.

Give up.

A vicious kick cracked the side of the fallen shelf and probably more than one of Bog's toes. He dropped to his knees, fingers dug into his scalp, mouth open to let out a cry of pain that would not come. Tears were dripping from his eyes, but the only noise he could make was from his choked breathing. The room and the words were all closing in on him and cutting off the air.

They didn't want him. Crown Prince Kenneth was the only thing left of a long line of great monarchs and he was not wanted. He was an end, a leftover. A tarnished scepter when they wanted a shining crown.

“Bog?”

The noise sent him reeling around. The sharp pain in his foot made his leg buckle and he crashed back down on the floor.

“Bog!”

It was Elinor.

“What _happened_?”

Bog shoved himself off the floor, grabbing the table so he could get the weight off his foot. The two guards were peeking in the door, trying not to look appalled at the state of the crown prince. Elinor was just a little bit in front of them. She probably hadn't dared come any further into the room.

“El—Elinor.”

Bog's customary embarrassment over making a fool of himself in front of an audience was strong enough to overwhelm the angry frustration that had been choking his throat closed. His face, already blotchy from crying, burned hot. He dragged the edge of his sleeve over his face.

“Do you need any help, your highness?” One of the guards asked with an admirable lack of hesitation or sarcasm.

“No. You may go.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

The door was shut behind the guards. No doubt one of them went along to report that his highness's room required tidying and a replacement shelf must be obtained. These reports would be wrapped up in the story of the prince's fit of temper from the guard's point of view and by sunset the entire castle would be discussing it.

“I guess this wasn't an assassination attempt, then,” Elinor remarked, nodding in the direction of the dismissed guards, “What did happen? And do you even own a handkerchief? You're a mess.”

* * *

"You're a mess!”

The raven chick warbled a happy tune and rubbed its beak on the princess's head. The princess felt mud oozing under the plates of her armor and she knew, deep in her heart, that it would take days to scrub it all out again. The stream was low in its bed and there was more mud than water. The chick did not mind this detail and had plunged right in, fanning its bony wings and spattering everyone nearby with mud.

“I raised you better than this,” the princess said severely, wiping a blob of mud out of her eye.

“Leave it alone, Thorn,” one of the girls sitting on the bank advised, “it'll get out when it wants to.”

“It's not supposed to get wet!” Stump shouted back, shoving the chick back toward dry ground, “they take dust baths!”

“Well, the dust was a little wet today, I guess.” Said another of the girls.

“Get in here!” Stump and the princess bellowed in unison.

The three girls hopped into the mud without further ado. They had already tested the limits of their liberty beneath the rule of princess and henchman and knew when to stop back-talking and hop to attention.

It took their entire collective strength to free the reluctant chick from the mud and most of the afternoon to scrub the chick back to gray instead of brown. It was lucky that the mugginess had slowed the adults down too and none of them would be noticing the absence of the princess until sunset.

“Ugh,” the princess flapped her wings. They slapped weakly against her back, too soaked with mud to be used. “being a mother is the worst.”

“Wings seem like more trouble than fun,” one of the new girls commented. She skittered over the root of a tree with nimble ease, flicking back her drooping ears with satisfaction.

“Mustard,” the princess twisted her lip to bare a fang, “those ears of yours seem like more trouble than fun. Always flapping in the wind. Want I should trim 'em?”

Mustard backed up and snarled defensively. The princess felt a pang of envy at the sight of Mustard's wide, snaggle-toothed snarl. It was so hard to be really truly fearsome when your face wasn't half as wide as most people's smiles. Still, the princess displayed her toothiest grin and dug her claws into the tree root to climb up after Mustard.

“She didn't mean anything,” Mustard's sister, Cob, said, “Just being stupid. She's sorry. Right, Mustard?”

Mustard dropped her snarl and nodded her head vigorously.

The chick, having waddled over to see what the princess was doing, stretched out its neck and gave Mustard's head an affectionate nibble.

“Please don't let it eat my ears,” Mustard pleaded in a terrified whisper.

“Oh, it's just a big sweet baby,” the third girl, Marilla, playfully smacked the chick's beak away from Mustard's head.

“Time will cure that!” The princess gave Marilla's shoulder a punch.

Marilla returned the blow, “It'll be the fiercest winged thing in the whole forest. Except you, 'course. And I come next.”

“No, that's me!” Stump said, “I was here first!”

“When we're old enough I'll have you two fight to the death over it.” The princess declared, “How's that?”

Stump and Marilla considered it for a bit before nodding agreement.

“Sounds good.”

“Yeah, let's do that.”

“Mustard and me are happy with being whatever,” Cob said, “Just so long as we get to play with your bird.”

The chick rubbed its beak up and down on the inside edges of the princess's shoulder. She lifted a hand to pat its beak and give it a scritch under the chin. She was glad that the chick still liked her best even after getting friendly with the others. The princess and the chick, they were going to be together as the forest was rebuilt and the fairy kingdom torn down. It would all be different. It would all be _better_.

* * *

Things were supposed to get _better_.

Bog had been prepared to fight for his rightful place, but he had also assumed it would be a straight line he fought his way down, a clear path from point A to point B. He did not expect there to be bends in it, swerving sharply off and out of sight, no way of telling what was waiting for him until he met it face-on. It was supposed to be hard, but it was also supposed to be _fair_. Bog was the heir of a long line of rulers. The throne was his by right of birth, by right of his parents' official recognition of him as their heir. They were gone, but Bog had thought the their decision had remained in their absence. It was part of their legacy. _Bog_ was part of their legacy. If the nobles took this away from him . . .

“You've scratched yourself!”

Elinor began to dab at Bog's face with a handkerchief. He because aware of a few drops of blood that had trickled past his hairline. The handkerchief was a lacy thing, made from the petal of some flower with a light, sweet scent. Bog knew it would be ruined and pushed it away in a confused motion, trying to scatter the bewildered pixies clustering around his head at the same time.

“Stop!” He snapped when the pixies and handkerchief began to converge on him again. He threw his hands over his face and flew backwards a few feet, tucking his legs up to avoid smacking them into the table. He landed by the window, touching down on his good foot, trying to make up for the earlier loss of air by gasping in the cool breeze that was blowing in from over the river.

“Oh!” Elinor crumpled the handkerchief in her hand and hid it behind her back, “Sorry. That wasn't very polite of me, your highness.”

The use of his title make Bog's heart twist. They'd probably let him keep that, or at least let him be called a prince. Not 'crown' prince. Just a prince of a kingdom that no longer existed. Elinor took a step forward, nudging a torn book with the toe of her shoe. She gave a cry of dismay and swooped to pick up the loose pages. “This is the limit! What did this defenseless book ever do to you?”

Bog kept his face turned to the window, but watched Elinor out of the corner of his swollen eyes. He flinched at the torn book. It had been so silly to destroy it. Childish. Behavior unworthy of a prince. Even a prince with a hollow title.

“Then again,” Elinor said after a quick assessment of Bog's face, “what did _you_ ever do to deserve this kind of treatment from yourself?”

A few more pages slipped loose when Elinor dropped the book back on the floor. The soft thump made Bog start. He was sure that one more sudden noise would jar him enough that his buzzing head would crack open. He was almost prepared to face that. He wasn't prepared for Elinor to walk over the mess and lay a hand on his shoulder.

The shock of a kind touch when he was on his guard against attack sent Bog reeling further into confusion. Elinor sat on the windowsill and tugged on Bog's wing until he sat down next to her. The pixies perched all around, waiting for an opportunity to administer more handkerchiefs. One last pat was given to Bog's shoulder before Elinor linked her arm with his.

“Now, in a novel this would be the sort of scene where I demand who did this to you so I can bludgeon them with something heavy. But that's usually the man's role, and besides I don't have much arm strength when it comes to bludgeoning. Maybe I could speak sternly to someone?”

“Do you feel like addressing the majority of landed nobility in the kingdom?”

“. . . no?”

“Me neither, but I did this afternoon.”

“Went badly?”

“They want . . . they want me to . . .” He couldn't say it. Not in cold blood. He could scream it in outrage. Deny it with the strength of his voice. How he would love to shake the pillars of the castle with a speech strong enough to shake the opposition right out of their chairs. That's what his mother had always said about his father. Bog had never witnessed it himself, he had been too young to attend such meetings.

“Want you to what? Stand on your head? Get up in front of everyone and recite tongue-twisters? Wear shoes and a clean shirt?”

“It isn't _funny_!”

Bog jerked his arm from Elinor's. A white-hot flash of anger seared through him. Stupid jokes weren't going to make any of this better.

“I . . .” Elinor had scooted back as far as the sill would let her. Her eyes were shiny with tears and her voice squeezed down to a whisper. “I didn't mean to . . .”

“They want me to step down! They want me to give up the throne! Does that sound _funny_ to you?”

“Of course not--”

“Then stop laughing!”

So many people laughed at him. He knew that. He just hadn't known until know that _everyone_ was laughing. Sneering at the pitiful death rattle of his clan. Laughing at his struggles while anticipating his failure. Prince Kenneth, the fool naïve enough to think he would one day sit on the throne as king.

“Stop laughing . . .”

Clumsy prince that could wield neither a fork or sword without tripping over his own feet. Him and his dragonfly wings and sharp face, more suited to a goblin than a fairy. His ridiculous attempts at courtly manners. His wild temperament. It was all laughable. Was Elinor laughing too?

“I'm leaving now.” Elinor stated in a voice that was cold even as it wavered.

She marched swiftly out of the room, her wings brushing over the mess and stirring it up. The door shut behind her, making the scraps of paper flutter even more. The air settled, heavier than ever. The brief breath of wind from over the stream had given way to the still air, so thick that Bog couldn't swallow it.

He had just chased Elinor out, who might have been the only friend he had in the whole world. The beautiful, wonderful Elinor who had given him back a little bit of a time when he had been happy.

He was alone.

* * *

The princess was alone.

She curled up tight in the crevice between two rocks. She could feel the throb of her bruises in the close press of the rocks, and every inch of her itched with dried mud. She had been stupid. Stayed at the river too long and by the time she got back her father had been looking for her long enough for him to have cast off the drowsiness of the day and work his temper to a fiery heat. Luckily Stump and the others handled sneaking the chick back in. They hadn't come back when they were done. Which the princess thought very shrewd. She herself didn't want to be anywhere near her father when he was unhappy.

So the princess was alone, too tired to creep down into the dungeon. There were some dead leaves, curled and crispy, just outside her hiding place. When she felt a little better she'd pull some of them in and make a nest for the night. Until then she let the cold stone ease her hot bruises. She tried not to shiver. That hurt. She huddled a little tighter, scratching at a loose slab of dried mud that was rattling around in her shoulder. She wasn't going to get much sleep tonight.

“Somebody is gonna hear us!”

“Not if you keep your trap shut!”

“Why did we bring Twig? All she does is sit on your head!”

Indignant buzzing echoed faintly from outside the princess's hiding place. Several sets of claws were scratching their way around the outside. The sound made the princess feel wary, but she recognized the voices trying—badly—to keep quiet. It made her feel grumpy. She didn't want to have to deal with anybody while she was battered and disgraced.

“Heeeey,” Mustard called softly, “Heeeey, Thooorn!”

The princess held her breath and waited for them to go away. They had to have better things to do than gloat over her disgrace.

Someone kicked a pebble into the crevice. It was about the size of the princess's fist and hurt when it smacked her knee.

“Ow!”

“You _are_ down there!” Stump said triumphantly.

“No, I'm not!”

“You are so, fairy face!”

The princess burst out of the crevice, ignoring her bruises and launching herself at Stump. She overestimated the amount of force she needed and knocked Stump right off the rocks along with herself. They tumbled down in a tangle and had the wind knocked out of them by the ground.

The princess sprawled face-first on the ground and regretted that the fall hadn't killed her. She hurt twice as bad all over and had had a mouthful of dirt.

Stump, being rounder and in one piece to start, was not bothered by the fall once he got his breath back. In fact, he started snorting.

The princess spat out the dirt, “You think this is funny? I'll take another piece of your nose and we'll see what's funny!”

“I knew you'd come out if I called you 'fairy face',” Stump chortled, “You're predictable.”

“Nice word,” the princess growled. She had been outwitted by _Stump_. It was the finishing touch on the awful night.

Twig dropped down, holding up a small oil lamp. She hummed a few notes of concern when she got a look at the princess's face. Mustard, Cob, and Marilla slid down to join them. Their claws screeched on the rocks and their landing crunched the leaves.

“What do you all want?” the princess staggered to her feet and stood as tall as she could.

“You hide real good,” Marilla said, “we've been looking hours.”

“We only started at sunset. It's barely past that.” Stump corrected.

“It's _felt_ like hours. The chick is okay. I got it all settled down.”

“ _I_ got it settled down,” Stump grumbled, “none of you know how to do nothing right.”

Mustard rolled her eyes, “The chick is settled down! Then we came to look for you.”

The princess looked at them warily. “Why?”

“Because your dad just beat--!” Mustard's answer was cut off when Twig smacked the side of her head with the lamp.

“You missed dinner,” Marilla held up a package wrapped in a leaf, “We thought you might be hungry.”

The princess's knees wobbled. “Huh?”

“Aren't you?”

The princess was confused. Nobody checked that she ate. Sometimes Aura nagged. But not often. Aura had a bad sense of time and was never hungry so it didn't really occur to her. If the princess missed a meal then she had to scrounge for herself or wait until the next meal. Nobody ever cared. She couldn't figure why this bunch would care now.

She couldn't understand why she wanted to cry.

“You're in charge,” Cob said, feeling further explanation was needed, “We've got to do stuff for you.”

“I did it because she's sad and pathetic,” Marilla shrugged.

Twig hit her with the lamp.

“Delegation of responsibility,” Twig said, “You're in charge so you don't have time to go running around doing other stuff. We get you dinner and you take care of the chick and do all your lessons.”

“And you're sad and pathetic,” Stump added.

Twig hit him with the lamp.

The princess's knees gave out and she sat down in the leaves with a crunch. Tipping her head back to keep her watery eyes from leaking she said with great dignity, “Finally, you are all learning your place. You've done well.”

They all shoved the leaves into a nest at the base of the rocks and huddled down into it, squashed against each other for warmth. The princess had seen the other goblins sleep in cozy piles with their families and friends. She'd always slept alone.

Her stomach full, cozy and half squashed, the princess thought that having underlings was sort of nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello it's a sporadic update for an AU nobody asked for or cares about but I love enough that it doesn't matter
> 
> also I promise that I'm working on my other fics, I swear

**Author's Note:**

> Based off some rough ideas (http://abutterflyobsession.tumblr.com/post/126285418611/strange-magic-week-role-reversal-butterfly-bog) I had awhile back and want to expand on, including my brotp of Bog and Dawn being sort of siblings.
> 
> If you’re unclear about what’s happening with the Brier King at the beginning, well it’s supposed to be mysterious, but I’m pretty sure you can puzzle it out.
> 
> Questions, comments, criticism? If you like it, tell me and reblog! I’m totally up for discussion


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